


There Are Bad Dreams for Those Who Sleep Unwisely

by sherwoodfox



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Horror, Illnesses, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Memory Loss, Near Death Experiences, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pillow Talk, Post-Canon, Secret Relationship, Seduction, Sexual Content, Spells & Enchantments, Suicidal Thoughts, Vampire Bites, Vampire Turning, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:42:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 66,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25007146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherwoodfox/pseuds/sherwoodfox
Summary: John Childermass meets a stranger on his travels, and unwillingly surrenders the secret of his heart.John Segundus falls ill, but it is not a typical illness- he is ever chilled, exhausted, and faint. He wanders the Starecross gardens at night in a fever, and opens the windows to his bedchamber.Childermass calls upon Jonathan Strange for magical aid where medical has none, and his determination is called into question- to what depths of Hell would a man so widely considered a pitiless rogue travel for love?
Relationships: John Childermass/John Segundus
Comments: 36
Kudos: 44





	1. prologue/enter freely of your own free will

Childermass closed the door to Segundus’ study quietly behind him, his boots making no sound on the floor. As quiet as a shadow, like he had trained himself to be, even before ever learning a lick of magic. The air inside the room was cold and sweet, smelling of long-burned candle wax.

Childermass sealed the door with a minor protective charm he had devised a long time ago- one that allowed those inside the room to hear what was going on outside it, but not vice-versa. The door also couldn’t be opened from outside without the person beyond first knocking, and then speaking their intention. The apparatus that allowed this charm to function was a simple white ribbon tied about the doorknob, and a murmured word activated it. It was a remarkably useful little spell, and he had certainly put it to work often over the last year.

Segundus didn’t seem to notice him at first, hunched over his desk with his face hidden behind a stack of books. Childermass could hear him muttering to himself, and paper rustling. The window before the desk was slightly ajar, and the chilled evening imposed itself on the room- Segundus had probably opened it for a fresh breeze during the afternoon, and then forgotten. He was liable to do that, and it was a bad habit, considering his propensity for catching chills.

Childermass watched him fondly for a moment, and then crept up behind, putting his palms on Segundus’ shoulders. Segundus started an instant before relaxing, allowing the touch to slide down his arms into an embrace. He sighed softly, a contented sigh that was one of Childermass’ most favourite sounds in the world.

“And how goes it, headmaster?” Childermass asked, taking advantage of their privacy to kiss the nape of Segundus’ neck where it was available to him. The skin there smelled especially sweet.

“Oh, busy,” replied Segundus a little weakly. He dropped the paper he was holding as Childermass took his hands. “There is quite a lot of accounting involved in running a school.”

“Then you should hire an accountant,” Childermass said, loosening Segundus’ cravat to give him access to more skin, which made Segundus squeak and Childermass chuckle.

 _“You_ are in a mood tonight,” Segundus gasped, and he made a move to stand, but Childermass pushed him back down into his chair. Perhaps he _was_ in a mood. It had certainly come upon him quite suddenly- but then, Segundus always had such a strong effect on him, it was hardly unusual.

“Tell me more about the accounting,” he said, putting on a voice of grave seriousness as he pulled down Segundus’ collar, undoing buttons on his shirt one by one. He could feel, rather than see, the heat rising to Segundus’ ears and cheeks.

“Well,” Segundus began, his voice shaking in his throat. “I do plan to hire one- an accountant, that is- but to do so I must find someone with good references and recommendations. I, erm…”

Childermass bit lightly at some newly-exposed skin on Segundus’ shoulder, which caused him to wriggle quite enjoyably in his seat. Still, the man soldiered on, not to be deterred from a task when he was set to it.

“...I should ask Mrs. Lennox, she would know someone, but...I ask so much of her already... _ah!”_

Childermass stopped his indecencies for a moment to say: “Nonsense. She is your benefactor, so let her benefact.”

Then he reached up and closed the window before the desk, quieting the sounds of the trees shifting outside. Segundus turned his head back to look, something glittering deep inside his eyes, and Childermass blew out the stout candle keeping the room alight.

“Enough work for today, wouldn’t you say?” he murmured. At this angle Segundus’ pale lips were quite available, so he took them, a kiss lingering lightly on the soft skin. “Headmaster,” he added, just to tease. He was corrupting the word, Segundus would blush now whenever he heard it. Lovely.

Segundus’ bedroom was located off the study, deeper into the healthy collection of rooms allocated to the headmaster’s apartments. It was here that Childermass led him, their fingers just entwined, and the bed welcomed them with all the familiarity of a homestead hearth.

Then there was no reason for either to maintain any such decency as clothing, and the time melted away in little sighs and moans and soft white skin and the steady, rising pleasure of two bodies moving together.

When it was over the mood stilled, taking on the same chill blue as the moonlight creeping in the bedroom window. Segundus was out of breath, and Childermass lay there in the embrace long enough to listen to him catch it before forcing himself to sit up again. Well, the discomfort was more than worth the pleasure that came before it, even if Segundus’ fingers trailed over his skin as he stood- not quite grasping, but still an obvious bid to keep him there.

“Can’t you stay?” Segundus asked in a very tiny voice. “Can’t you stay just once?”

It was a familiar question, and the answer was familiar, too.

“It is one thing for two colleagues to often stay up late discussing their work together,” said Childermass, as gently as he could. “It is another for one of them not to emerge until morning.”

Segundus sighed, and this time the sound was cold and clear, like crystal. Childermass knew that he wouldn’t fight any harder. Truth be told, it was more difficult to leave him when he was so accepting, so _understanding,_ so resigned to the nature of their situation. It was more difficult still to look at him lying there, painted in such pale shades of white and blue by the moonlight, barely covered by the blankets.

“I have to leave for London tomorrow,” Childermass said as he pulled on his jacket, and Segundus sat up instantly, distress obvious on his face. Childermass cursed himself a little for that. 

“What-? No! I mean…you didn’t say anything.” Segundus bit his lip, perhaps ashamed of his protest, and Childermass (now fully, if roughly, dressed once again) sat down on the bed beside him.

“The letter was delayed, and I only received word today. There is a council there that needs to see Vinculus,” he said, another familiar explanation. “Apparently one of them has found the key to an old script which might help some in deciphering him.”

“I see,” said Segundus, and he sounded honest, but he didn’t quite look Childermass in the eyes.

“I will be gone a fortnight at most,” Childermass told him.

Segundus nodded, folding the blankets around his lap to keep away the chill. Then he added quietly:

“I just...you are gone so often. The students always miss your lessons. And I...I miss you.”

Childermass took one of his hands where it was folded anxiously across the blankets and raised it to his lips to kiss the knuckles- dry and silvery things approached by roads of the most apparent blue. There was nothing he could say that had not already been said.

“I love you,” Segundus murmured in the softest voice he could muster, the sound little more than an exhale. He finally looked back at Childermass, the dark curls across his forehead obscuring the pained contraction of his brow, and Childermass leaned in to kiss his lips again instead. He felt Segundus shiver when he did, and he allowed himself to enjoy the sensation despite the ache of it all.

“I love you, too,” he replied.

But then he pulled away and stood, taking his hat in hand to make his way back out the door. His own room was downstairs, a butler’s quarters, though Segundus frequently expressed his wish to put Childermass somewhere nicer. Childermass didn’t need nicer. He barely deserved what he had there at all.

“Goodnight,” Childermass said at last. “I do not think I shall see you in the morning, so best of luck- perhaps you will have that accountant by the time I have returned.”

“Goodnight,” Segundus echoed. He smiled, but there was an edge of melancholy under its warmth. A bittersweet parting. Well, that was the usual.

Childermass undid the charm on the door as he left the study with another word, and made his way down the stairs feeling heavier than he usually did. 

_I love you, too._

Childermass knew it was an unbearably selfish thing to say. He was already selfish enough as it was, taking such liberties. He had been too weak, all those months ago in summer, when Segundus had kissed him- he had been too weak, and had kissed him back. Now what was he doing? The longer it went on the worse it would be, and yet Childermass was unable to let him go. Back when this had all started, he could have finished it with a minor heartbreak, a small embarrassment- that would have perhaps done Segundus better in the long run. But it was too late for that now.

Childermass could weather the dangers of such...relationships. He was a rogue, and no one expected anything of him but roguishness, and if he were to be caught he would not be too worse off. It would not be his first time facing a gaol. But Segundus was different- he was a gentleman, one who held a very important position in the post-Restoration society. He stood to lose very much. Childermass wouldn’t be the one to take his school from him a second time, and the thought of Segundus disgraced filled him with such a bitter chill it made all the smaller aches bearable in comparison. 

So he should have broken Segundus’ heart and left it at that, but he hadn’t, and now he was crawling from his lover’s arms with his tail between his legs, going to sleep in a dusty room with a small, cold bed that smelled only of pipe-smoke, not of wildflowers.

(Because Segundus, human man though he was, smelled of wildflowers.)

Childermass sighed. He hadn’t the time to be moaning to himself over nonsense like this- he needed to sleep. There was a long journey ahead of him, beginning early in the morning, and he would joined by a famously cantankerous companion.


	2. for the dead travel fast

The following morning Childermass and Vinculus set out from Starecross just after dawn. Vinculus was on the edges of a foul mood from having been woken so early, and so he road slightly ahead on his unshakable bay mare (who Childermass had selected for him precisely because of this- she barely needed steering and didn’t care about his poor posture). The rising sun was golden in colour, and turned all the edges of the sparse spring grass to figures of precious metal.

On their way up to the bridge, Childermass turned on instinct to look back at the house. One of the high windows- the window that Childermass knew was situated in the headmaster’s bedroom- cracked open, and the man himself leaned out, wearing nothing but his nightgown. The light made his hair gold, too, especially the small veins of colour that would have been gray in another light. He was quite the vision.

Segundus folded his head in his arms on the windowsill and waved lazily with one hand. Childermass, in spite of himself, waved back. He could only half see it from this distance, but he was sure Segundus was smiling.

With that smile in mind the journey suddenly seemed much brighter than it had only moments before, and Childermass caught up to Vinculus with a lighter heart.

The first day of the journey did indeed go well. The sun stayed for most of the day, only turning to cloud in the evening, and they stopped where Childermass had expected they would stop. Vinculus certainly talked a lot, but in a decent mood he wasn’t the worst of companions, especially since he didn’t actually expect Childermass to listen to him. Of course it would still have been easier with a typical leather-bound book, but, well.

On the second day, however, the weather took a foreboding turn- the sky became filled with ominous clouds, and winds slithered across the moors, promising storms. Still, they made it as far as Childermass hoped.

On the third day the rain began. It was the worst kind of early April rain, falling as hard as bullets and so cold it was nearly snow. The landscape- where not enough plants had yet regrown from winter- turned bleak. There was a decent case for delaying their journey, and Vinculus certainly made it, but Childermass insisted they continue a while anyway. He had traveled through worse weather than this (and he didn’t doubt the same was true for Vinculus, no matter how accustomed to a cushy lifestyle he was becoming). And besides, Childermass didn’t want to prolong this trip any more than was necessary. He had his own studies to conduct in York, and students who apparently would miss him, and a headmaster who certainly did.

But no matter how fierce his determination there was only so far one could go in weather such as that, especially given that it grew worse over the course of the day. By the afternoon the sky was almost as black as night, and the rain hit them sideways, for so high were the winds. Vinculus had been giving Childermass dirty looks for some time, but now Brewer started to do the same, picking at the ground as he walked and tossing his head. No, it did no good to exhaust the horses. Childermass relented to settling in at the next inn they came across, even if it was not the one he had planned to reach.

The next inn, as it turned out, happened to be one Childermass hadn’t stayed in before- a place called the Black Duck. It was unusual for Childermass not to know a place, and so automatically he was wary, but as they approached he figured it looked Christian enough. The place did not smell of magic in the slightest, and the lamps set out to mark it had a very ordinary orange light.

As the horses came down the path a pair of servants darted out the door, holding their jackets over their heads. Childermass dismounted, handing over Brewer’s reins.

“I take it there’s room enough inside?” he asked (needing to yell over the wind) and one of the men replied:

“Aye, I suppose so! We’re not turning anyone away in this weather anyway- we’re the only spot ‘round for miles!”

Childermass scoffed at this, assuming the worst, and sure enough as they entered the establishment itself they found the main room crowded with patrons. Still, it was pleasant enough to be standing somewhere out of the wet, and with the wind absent Childermass realized just how much its incessant blowing had bothered his ears. The inn itself, however, was slightly strange- part of the crowding, Childermass soon observed, came from the fact that the taproom was actually rather small compared to the building from the outside (hopefully this meant there were more rooms). The air of the place bordered on dingy, some sections lit by too many candles and others by too few. The ceiling was low, and what Childermass smelled most strongly was layers upon layers of old pipe-smoke and spilled ale.

But he was able to secure a room for himself and Vinculus (just the one, but that would do) as well as an early dinner. He did not suppose that either of them would be making any more progress until the storm let up, and though his heart still rather wished to hurry on, his aching ears and water clogged boots disagreed.

So the evening passed slowly. Childermass and Vinculus ate, and then Vinculus wandered off to make friends (or enemies) as he would, Childermass paying him only a loose attention- though he wouldn’t leave the man alone entirely, having learned that lesson through various misadventures already. He had himself an ale he nursed slowly, and perhaps another, and perhaps another (only because it was put down before him by the innkeeper without his saying anything). The time on the old clock mounted above the bar passed very slowly, and the world outside did not seem to change at all, the wooden walls rattling with the fury of the storm outside.

At one point, Childermass became aware that he was being watched.

Just about everyone in the place had given him a once-over, and either they hadn’t liked what they saw or he had made them nervous, for he had been left alone. But he felt eyes on him anyway- it was a trained awareness, but for some reason what he felt then was a sensation stronger than most. His neck prickled to the extent that it was actually uncomfortable, and he reached up with one hand to rub it. Using this motion as a disguise for his own eyes, he looked around the room, and very easily found the source of this sensation.

There was a man sitting in the northern corner of the room, huddled about his own little table much as Childermass was- though perhaps ‘huddled’ wasn’t the right word, though he was alone he looked very comfortable. When had he come in? Childermass hadn’t been paying attention, but there was a pitcher before him, still full. From just a glance Childermass couldn’t say if he was a young or old man, but he was slender and clean-shaven, his face standing out against his dark clothes (gentleman’s clothes, though they were out of fashion, and looked a little worn) the way the moon stood out in the night sky. Childermass tried to pretend he wasn’t looking, but the man caught his eyes and held them, turning his head to the side with an almost satisfied looking smile. Childermass scowled at him.

The man was not deterred. He stood and left his own table, coming over to sit quite uninvited in the space opposite Childermass, where the remains of Vinculus’ dinner had been cleared away. With less distance between them Childermass supposed he was young, and something like handsome, but there was a gauntness in his white face that made it almost skeletal, and since he was unwelcome Childermass was predisposed to disliking him.

“Excuse me, sir-” Childermass began in a tone that toed the line of disrespect, but the man spoke over him.

“You are a magician, I think?”

He had a thick accent, if Childermass had to guess he would say French, but he wasn’t incomprehensible. Childermass glowered, but the man only smiled, another taunting close-lipped smile. He suspected the man was some tourist, an eccentric gentleman coming to England in search of a spectacle, for there were all too many of those these days.

“Is that what my friend told you?” Childermass said ‘friend’ with some degree of sarcasm, and of course he meant Vinculus, for he supposed there was no other way this man could have come to learn of his profession. Childermass turned to look around for him, to see if this was some piece of mischief. “Whatever you’re looking for, I can’t help-”

The man took Childermass by the arm, which made Childermass look back, seeing that the man’s hand (also very white and very thin) ended in long, pointed yellow fingernails. Childermass tried to jerk his arm away, resolving to move to another table (or drag Vinculus to the room to retire) but he found he couldn’t. The man had a grip like a vise, and even through his jacket Childermass felt his touch as cold.

“I am interested in magicians,” the man said. “Can you show me a spell?”

The gentleman met Childermass’ eyes, and suddenly the world turned. Childermass thought he wanted to refuse this man, in fact it was only natural he should do so- or was it? He found he couldn’t make his jaw form the words. The man released his arm, but Childermass didn’t get up, even though he was sure he had wanted to just a moment ago. The room around him seemed to spin, a little like he had taken too much drink, and the voices of the other patrons quieted to a dull hum. It was as if the stranger and he were the only men left in the place (or possibly, in the world) that were real. It was impossible to look away from those dark eyes.

“A spell,” Childermass repeated dully, without realizing his intention to speak.

“Yes, a spell,” said the man in his rough accent. His voice sounded like a whisper, right against Childermass’ ear. “Any little thing would do.”

A few possible spells flashed through Childermass’ mind- something simple and charming, he had impressed men (a man?) with them before- but he did not move to cast them. His teeth were grinding together in his skull. In the back of his mind, he was sure that something was wrong, but he could not say exactly what, he felt too dizzy to think straight- and possibly too dizzy to properly execute any magic, even if he had really wanted to. Did he want to? The problem was, he wasn’t sure. The man hadn’t been quite so handsome just a moment ago, he was sure of it, but in this new state of mind the stranger became infinitely more attractive. His black eyes seemed quite large and liquid, his dark hair sweet where it curled about his face, his white lips soft and his delicate visage charming. Exactly Childermass’ favourite features on a man. The stranger leaned in to him, so close Childermass could count the long, dark eyelashes on his face, and find that he smelled of wet earth. Childermass’ jaw clenched, but he felt himself shiver, his own body both too hot and too cold.

“If not a spell, then I will take a kiss,” the gentleman said, words penetrating his skull, and Childermass felt a cold hand entwine with his under the table. Now, (Childermass thought dizzily) this was very bold, and risky in such a populated place- Childermass knew from his youth that men looking for trysts with one another had to be more careful than this- but still he had trouble moving away. He had a sense that he was in danger, but he wasn’t entirely sure if it was true. The man’s nails scraped at his wrist, and Childermass realized he was breathing very heavily, the dim candlelight in the inn making his vision blur.

“Come away with me,” the gentleman murmured, and this time the words flowed across Childermass’ skin. He was attractive- indeed, suddenly very attractive- and he was offering himself. Childermass’ body was suddenly flush with desire. Shouldn’t Childermass go with him? Didn’t he _want_ to go with him? Yes, surely he did- he wanted to take his hand and lead him away, slip into the bedroom behind the study, kiss the pale man with the dark hair and dark eyes until he was senseless, tell him the truth, tell him he _loved_ him-

Childermass came back to himself quite abruptly with the following realization: _this man was not John Segundus._

Disturbed, he jerked away, but there was a chill in his limbs that stopped him from standing all the way, even though he was certain now that he was in danger and certain that he wanted to. What was this man? What had he done-?

The stranger made a sound which could have been an animal hiss, and turned Childermass’ cheek. Looking into them now, Childermass had no doubt that those were not Segundus’ eyes- for indeed, suddenly he could not stop thinking of Segundus. Segundus smiling at him, Segundus flushing to the ends of his ears, Segundus arching his back in a climax, Segundus intent in his focus on a spell. The visions- memories- burned before his eyes almost as clear as reality, and paralyzed him still, keeping him in that chair. He could feel the cold touch of the stranger on his cheek, but all he could see was Segundus, in all the different shades and temperaments he had fallen in love with.

“Oh, I see,” said the stranger. “How pretty. You have good taste. _Where?”_

The answer flashed across Childermass’ eyes before he could stop it: The house behind the brook, _Starecross,_ the school of magic. 

The gentleman released him, and it was like being lifted into air after being trapped underwater. All the sounds of the inn came clamouring back, all the lights increased their brightness, and Childermass returned to full awareness of himself seated at the booth, gasping for air he hadn’t realized he was losing. He had a sense of motion before him and he lashed out, but he struck only the wood of the table. Blinking furiously to clear his eyes Childermass stood, but he was alone- a few of the other patrons looked his way at his outburst, but his pale companion was nowhere to be seen. He had been real, hadn’t he? Childermass had a very bad feeling about this. It was a feeling he had learned to heed over the years- the feeling of _enchantment._

Childermass found Vinculus harassing one of the inn’s maids in the kitchen, and dragged him into the room he had purchased, closing and locking the door behind him.

“What’s all this about, then, Reader?” Vinculus complained. “It’s not even yet midnight-”

“Did you tell that man I was a magician?” Childermass snapped. Vinculus didn’t reply, only looking at him with a curious tilt to his head. “Did you?”

“I’m not in the habit of telling people things,” said Vinculus, scratching his chest over his jacket. “Least of all useless tidbits like that.”

Childermass exhaled. He felt deeply unsettled, and his heart was beating too fast. He needed to think of what to do next- of wards or warnings. Were the other people at the inn in danger? If the gentleman had been a _fairy,_ then they certainly were.

“Did you see him come, or go?” Childermass asked, his tone of voice calmer this time. “A young man, very pale, very thin. Wearing dark clothes, something...threadbare, out of date. A gentleman.”

Vinculus shrugged.

“Saw something like that come in,” he said. “Ugly fellow, I thought. Looked entirely ordinary to me.”

“What did he do?”

Vinculus shrugged again. As Childermass calmed he seemed to be losing interest in the whole situation. 

“I dunno. Stopped looking- wasn’t much to look at.”

Childermass sighed, covering his eyes with one hand. He found his fingers were trembling. Something very bad had happened back there, he knew that, but exactly what he couldn’t quite say. He thought he had given the man something- or rather, that something had been taken from him, something very precious that should not have been given away. But what that was he couldn’t recall. The entire interaction was obfuscated, taking on the misty quality of a dream in his memories, decaying more by the minute.

“Do you think,” Childermass asked again (because what else was he to do). “That this man might have been a fairy?”

Vinculus snorted immediately, and there was no doubt in his voice as he replied:

“No way. Had a funny walk- not graceful- not the right kind of face. Even that piece of work that put me in the tree was nicer for the eyes than _that.”_

Childermass nodded, and considered this. Then he found he had to sit, for his legs were also shaking, and his entire body felt like it had gone through much greater an ordeal than he could reasonably account for. 

Vinculus made his bed and settled down despite his previous protestations, and after a while Childermass stood again and went back out into the taproom. He made a few inquiries about the pale gentleman, but though some vaguely recalled seeing him, no one seemed to know him personally. The patroness did remember giving him a beer.

“I collected it from that table after he left- hadn’t had a sip of it! I wonder where he went in this weather.”

Childermass ultimately concluded that there was little chance the man had been a fairy. The people in the room would not have remembered him at all, if that were the case, and the inn did not have any sense about it of lingering magic. Still, he warned the patroness to look out for possible signs of enchantment- things out of place, an increase in unusual visitors, muddled memories or frequent nightmares- and to send word to either the York Society or the Starecross School of Magic if any such things began occurring. The woman (who had lived in the North all her life) took his warnings quite seriously, and thanked him.

Childermass then returned to his room, where he tied a white ribbon about the doorknob, setting that small protective charm. He doubted the gentleman would return, but if he did there would be some warning.

When undressing, Childermass noticed something- there was a long, thin cut on the inside of his wrist, shallow and very clean. It had stopped bleeding a while ago, and Childermass hadn’t felt any pain. He did not know where he had gotten it. He did not remember being injured, nor most of what had happened that evening at all.

Despite his exhaustion, it took a while for sleep to come that night.


	3. there is nothing to explain

The morning brought nothing unusual, and by daybreak the storm had settled. There seemed to be nothing else Childermass could do at the inn- he did take a peek at the surrounding wooded areas before leaving, but nothing was magically amiss- so he and Vinculus resumed their journey. The remaining days to London passed with clear weather and good speed, and there were no more incidents with unusual gentlemen in dusky taprooms.

The collection of magicians in London- all of whom had apparently tried and failed for positions in the recently instituted Petty Dragownes- met Childermass as planned, and they all had much to say about Vinculus, even though most of it was fluff and nonsense. Only the former linguist- the one who had proposed a new translation method, based on old scripts recorded in Wales- had anything valuable to bring to the table, and with his permission Childermass made copies of his notes to bring back to the York Society (he also invited all of the magicians there, as he always did). But most of these magicians were gentlemen of a sort, and most again had a certain sense of entitlement to them, and the meeting ended up lasting a few days longer than Childermass had anticipated and desired. He did manage to use the time to some advantage, however, including putting a job notice out at the more well-renowned accounting houses and buying a small present for Segundus.

(Silly, but he couldn’t help himself.)

By the end of it, he figured he had more than done his duty as Keeper of the King’s Book, and Vinculus had plenty enjoyed his time off visiting old friends and wives in some of the nastier parts of the city, and so with perfect satisfaction the horses were readied and the pair set off again for York. This time, the weather obliged them all the way.

“In a hurry, are you?” Vinculus complained on the last morning of their voyage. “I don’t think a Keeper should be so bound to his hearth. You’re always rushing about, ‘cept when we’re there.”

Childermass ignored him.

The weather was bright but grey that evening when they made it back to Starecross. There was no sign of rain, but a thin layer of cloud covered the sky, giving the same impression on the landscape as a minor chord. Childermass let the horses in and let Vinculus go, free to content himself with a bit of wandering (the students had realized quickly that a gift of food or alcohol could give them almost unfettered access to the most important magical document in England, and so they often scooped him up outside of class time, a habit which the teachers neither encouraged nor forbid), and made for the house himself.

To his surprise he was greeted at the door by the manservant Charles, who gave him a slightly anxious smile.

“Welcome back, Mr. Childermass,” he said. “I suppose- I wonder if you received our letter?”

“Letter?” Childermass had received no such thing, and his tone seemed to show it.

“Oh, it must have just missed you in London then,” he said, stepping aside to let Childermass in, though Childermass didn’t let him take any of his bags. He seemed in good enough spirits, and the kitchen smelled of a good meal halfway ready, so nothing dire could have come to pass.

“What was in it?” Childermass asked, and Charles shrugged, only replying thus:

“Oh, it doesn’t matter now that you’re here, but...I suppose you should talk to Mr. Segundus about it. He took ill, you see.”

Childermass frowned. That was not something he particularly liked to hear.

Now, it was not exactly rare for Segundus to take ill in one sense or another. Childermass had learned this- fail to feed the man, or get him exerted when the weather was too hot, or perform great magic in his presence, any of these things and he was liable to faint (quite prettily, Childermass had often privately thought). When it rained too heavily Segundus would become fatigued, when the sun shone too bright he might have a headache. Childermass had known him to catch cold twice since the beginning of their relationship, and both times the solution had been a few days rest and some sturdy tissues. Segundus bore such things very well, with all the dignity of a man whose constitution had been frail from birth, and who saw no sense in complaining over mild discomforts. But still, Childermass didn’t like him having discomforts, even if he wouldn’t complain over them.

“I suppose I will, then,” he said.

It was also strange, Childermass mused as he took his bags back to his little butler’s room, that a letter should have been written to him about such a thing. He wasn’t a doctor. He wasn’t Segundus’ _husband_ (a laughable impossibility). There was really no sense in writing about it- he was only a few days delayed- unless, that is, Segundus was _very_ sick, but surely Charles would not have been at ease if this were so. Still, Childermass felt something like discomfort in his chest at the whole affair, and he resolved to find Segundus at once (as if that hadn’t been the plan anyway).

It was an easy enough task. Segundus was in the west-facing classroom, leading a discussion about the cardinal directions and their effects on certain magicks (locating spells, pathfinding spells, summoning spells). Childermass slipped in the back of the room, unseen by the students, and sat down to listen.

Segundus met his gaze and smiled, the lines along his eyes crinkling, but he said nothing, continuing the flow of the lesson. Childermass had to school his expression, for how easily it had slipped into a smile of its own.

Segundus looked well enough, he supposed- perhaps a touch paler than he might be usually when talking about magic (a subject that invariably excited him to pink cheeks and glittering eyes) but that could be explained by the grey light coming in the window, or a touch of fatigue. Childermass let his heart settle.

The lesson ended- Childermass found he had enjoyed it, even if he had only caught the last few minutes- and the students were instructed to try making an internal compass in the evening, and read over each other’s notes, and bring questions to the next lesson. For now, dinner would be served in the dining hall, and they were to go enjoy that.

“I myself will stay behind a moment to speak with Mr. Childermass,” said Segundus sweetly, and a few of the students looked around at him in surprise, not having noticed his return. Childermass raised an eyebrow at them, an expression clearly terrifying enough to send them scattering, and Segundus laughed.

“I hope your journey went well,” Segundus said, sitting down on the edge of the desk at the front of the classroom. He wrung his hands before his chest almost anxiously, and if they hadn’t been in a public place Childermass would have taken them in his own.

“Well enough,” he replied. “I got a few interesting things out of it. We can discuss them after dinner, if you’d like.”

“I would,” said Segundus, with another dazzling little smile.

“What’s this about a letter, then?” Childermass asked, and instantly Segundus blushed, looking down at his shoes. “I did not receive it. Charles said you were ill.”

“Yes- I was, yes. It’s silly.”

Childermass just looked at him, until Segundus could give his words strength enough to take their leave from his lips.

“A few nights ago, I developed a fever- it wasn’t very bad, I don’t think, but apparently I was quite delirious. I don’t remember, but, erm, Charles said I asked for you- said I needed to tell you something very important. I must have been so adamant about it they wrote to you in the morning. It...it was very silly.”

“Do you remember what it was?” Childermass asked him.

“What?” Segundus looked surprised.

“Do you remember the important thing you wanted to tell me?”

Segundus blushed again, another pink wave lapping at his cheeks before receding, but he shook his head.

“No,” he said. “I doubt it was anything at all. I’m sure I was only imagining things. I must have made quite a fuss.”

“Oh, you certainly made a fuss, if they actually wrote to me,” Childermass said with a chuckle. Segundus gave him a slightly exasperated look at this, which made him chuckle again. “Well, are you feeling better now? I hope there were no lasting effects.”

This was a more serious question, and Segundus recognized it, the embarrassment in his posture fading a little.

“Oh, I am quite well now,” he said gently. “Only a little tired. I can only suppose fatigue is what brought it on in the first place, and everyone has been making sure I am well rested.”

Childermass nodded, and Segundus gave him a sly little smile.

“You mustn’t worry,” he said quietly, his tone implying that he would be rather pleased if Childermass _did_ worry, if only a little bit.

“‘Tis a pity I wasn’t there,” Childermass replied, pitching his own voice low so that the words would not travel beyond the room. “I would have slayed your imaginary dragons for you.”

Segundus laughed and reddened and bid him come to dinner, and Childermass realized as he always did that he much preferred to be at Starecross than away.

The evening passed quite contentedly, and the matter of Segundus’ illness did not come up again.

That night they were in bed, and Segundus sighed comfortably into the bare crook of Childermass’ neck, wrapping an arm about his waist. Their bodies both were slick with sweat- and other things- that cooled in the dark air. Of course, Childermass had returned after over two weeks absent, so his welcome had been quite pleasantly exuberant. It was exceedingly delightful to rest his nose in Segundus’ soft dark hair- the Segundus who was swiftly drifting away, still wrapped tightly about Childermass to keep him there, his chest apparently making a comfortable enough pillow. Childermass watched him- his breathing, the tiny movements of his eyelids, the occasional twitch of thin white lips- and remembered suddenly that he had purchased Segundus a present in London, and that this present was in his saddlebags, which at the moment may as well have been miles away. He tutted to himself, and the sound made the candle on Segundus’ bedside flicker.

“What?” Segundus asked sleepily, the sound stirring him enough to wrap an ankle around Childermass’ leg, clinging to him the way that underwater plants clung to unsuspecting swimmers. “Do not go yet. It is not late, we did not spend so much time _talking.”_

“It wasn’t that,” Childermass murmured to reassure him, rubbing Segundus’ lower back with one trapped hand. However, instead of being relaxed back into a state of sleep, Segundus opened his eyes and looked up.

“What was it then? Talk to me, I have missed your voice.”

Childermass felt something a little like lightning touch his heart hearing that- perhaps it was still unbelievable, that Segundus returned his feelings- and inhaled deeply, looking for something to say. He did not want to give away the surprise just yet, gifts were better given in person.

“I met a strange man at an inn,” Childermass said. “On the way out, the day it stormed. Did it storm here?”

“Well...” Segundus mumbled, settling back down on Childermass’ chest. “That day I was doing a lesson in weather-magic, and…”

Childermass scoffed in disbelief.

“That doesn’t seem like you. I have seen your rain clouds and they are very sweet.”

“Not me,” Segundus said, and Childermass saw how his ears had turned pink. “Young Jack Tailor- he’s only about eleven, but his talent can be quite...explosive.”

Childermass laughed to himself. Amazing, how this man could warm even sour memories. He supposed he should have appreciated the thunderstorm a little more on that day, seeing as it had come from home. 

“You were meeting a strange man,” Segundus prompted bashfully, squeezing Childermass about the middle. Childermass allowed the subject to be redirected- perhaps he had embarrassed Segundus a few too many times that day, cute though he was in such a state.

“Yes, a strange man,” he continued. “A Frenchman, I think.”

Segundus made a little noise of surprise.

“A strange coincidence!” he chirped, looking back up at Childermass with a smile. “I believe I dreamed of a Frenchman recently.”

“What did he do, your dream Frenchman?” Childermass asked.

“I do not remember. I suppose he demonstrated his French-ness. What did _your_ Frenchman do?” 

“I thought…” Childermass considered. In truth, he did not entirely remember the encounter, only that it had bothered him. There had been some air of magic about it, perhaps, but he could not say if that had really been the case. “I thought he enchanted me. But now I think I may only have had too much to drink. Oh, he did proposition me, though.”

Segundus gasped, sitting upright in Childermass’ arms, cheeks pink and eyes wide. He looked entirely scandalized, and so the remark had been more than worth making.

“He did _not!_ That is- that is extremely bold, Mr. Childermass! It is quite indecent!”

Childermass raised an eyebrow at that, gesturing between the two of them, both men and naked and red from each other’s kisses and sore from each other’s touch. Segundus understood without his saying anything.

“It is indecent because you are _spoken for!_ I-”

Segundus broke off, seeming to realize what he had said, and he flushed so hard and so hot the colour even appeared on his neck. He clapped a hand over his mouth and looked at Childermass with an expression quite shocked indeed.

“Oh, so there it is,” Childermass said lowly, taking Segundus’ wrist to peel his fingers from his lips. “You think I belong to you? You think you own me?”

Segundus just stared at him, hand forming an anxious fist in his grasp, body warm against his.

“Well, of course you do,” Childermass finished with a touch of a smirk. “And I belong to you completely.”

Segundus glared at him, eyes hot with some mix of frustration and adoration and arousal, and in recompense for the teasing Childermass kissed him passionately for quite some time. He forgot entirely about the tale of the strange Frenchman and any concern he had over it, for such things as horror stories paled in comparison to a lover’s warm embrace and soft lips and quiet moans.

The candle in the room flickered out at the time their passions cooled again, and Childermass realized with the same, familiar regret that it was time enough for him to take his leave. Segundus seemed to realize it at the same time, and carefully he sat up, exposing much of Childermass to the cooling air in the room.

“I suppose I must bid you goodnight,” Segundus said softly, and Childermass nodded, patting the back of his hand as he stood to dress himself once again. Segundus did the same, pulling his nightgown over his head, for indeed the night did seem to be cooler than others lately. Segundus relit the candle and led him to the door, murmuring in pretence that he did not want Childermass to trip, and then at the door he kissed Childermass once more. A chaste, goodnight kiss.

“Tomorrow we shall bring your translator’s work to the older students,” Segundus murmured thoughtfully. “I think Miss Redruth will be particularly excited.”

“I shall look forward to it,” Childermass replied, not dishonest, and he slipped into the hallway.

The last thing he saw as he closed the door behind him was Segundus with his head turned, looking thoughtfully out the window in the study. The candle he held made his face shadowy from beneath, like the teller of a ghost story- but then the door was closed and he was gone, and Childermass left him to return to his own bed.


	4. the little things may teach us most

The next morning Childermass woke a little after dawn (as he had trained his body to do) and made himself useful about the house. Mr. Honeyfoot arrived from High-Petergate just before breakfast, and greeted him quite warmly (something Childermass would never have anticipated in his years of Norrell’s service- he had wronged this man, too). Childermass told him of the new research being conducted on the Book, and Honeyfoot agreed to come to the meeting-lesson that afternoon to explore it. Childermass kept expecting Segundus to appear and welcome his friend, but he did not.

Breakfast was served both in the student dining-hall and the faculty dining-room at 8:00, and while Childermass joined with the latter, Segundus again did not. The seat at the head of the table was left empty as the food was served.

“That is unusual for him,” Honeyfoot remarked blandly around a mouthful of toast. “I wonder if he got caught up in his study.”

The image of Segundus enraptured in a new magical idea and forgetting to feed himself was not exactly unbelievable, but still Childermass resolved to go and seek him out personally, if nothing else to remind him of his morning lessons. Childermass began debating whether it was proper to request some breakfast be sent to Segundus, or if he should slip some of Segundus’ preferred breakfast foods (buttered rolls and peach preserves) into a handkerchief and do it personally. But before he could reach any conclusion on the matter Segundus himself finally appeared in the dining-room doorway.

Childermass knew instantly that something was wrong. Segundus was dressed, but sloppily, the blue silk cravat about his neck in disarray, the curls in his hair out of place. His skin was as white as snow on his cheeks and darkened to gray under his eyes, a sickly combination. He stood in the doorway for a moment, looking like he had forgotten why he had come, and then wavered- putting one hand over his eyes and the other on the doorframe, sinking into what was undoubtedly a faint.

Childermass stood, his chair scraping rudely on the wooden floor, but he was on the far side of the table and hence it was the attending servants who reached Segundus first, helping him catch his legs and reach his chair. He hadn’t entirely passed out, then. As Segundus sat there was instantly much fuss, many voices crying out in confusion and concern, and Childermass wished he could quiet them without overstepping himself because he knew the noise would not help Segundus, who still covered his eyes with the palms of his hands. 

“I’m sorry,” he said weakly, and it was proof of the respect and affection everyone at the table had for him that they all quieted to listen. “I do not know what...I felt dizzy coming down the stairs, but…”

The maid Hannah (who Childermass knew of old) immediately set to pouring Segundus a cup of tea and piling his plate with as much in the way of fortifying things as she could find, which gave Segundus a moment to compose himself.

“I did not mean to concern any of you,” he said when he had, and already he looked more like himself, light returning to his eyes. However, Childermass noticed that his hands shook a little as he picked up a fork, and then anxiously put it down again. “I am not sure what came over me- I did not sleep well last night, a-and I made up for it this morning...I suppose I simply rushed too much coming down the stairs.”

Segundus looked like he very much wished the table would stop looking at him, and his gaze fluttered over to Childermass for just a moment, in which Childermass tried to put on his best expression of firmness and support. He did not know if it translated, but Segundus blushed a little faintly, and mumbled:

“Thank you for your help,” before tapping the shell of the egg put on his plate as a signal to end the topic of conversation.

“I think Mr. Honeyfoot will be joining us in the discussion this morning,” said Childermass to bring about the beginning of a new one. Segundus started, and then looked over at Honeyfoot properly for the first time, turning even redder than before. Good, if he looked like that there could be nothing too dire that was the matter with him.

“Oh my goodness! Dear Mr. Honeyfoot, you have returned! I did not see you there!” This morning was clearly turning out to be more embarrassing than Segundus had probably hoped for. Childermass suppressed the smile that slipped onto his face with a bite of bacon.

“Well, you were a little preoccupied,” Honeyfoot said good-naturedly, and the two entered a happy conversation.

The rest of the day was spent very busily. The older students had much to say and debate on the subject of the King’s Book, and some did quite passionately, seeing the text as something like a magic Bible- a stance which was becoming reasonably common, despite Childermass never bothering to promote it himself (he was not a salesman). After lunch the younger students had lessons scheduled, including the continuation of the direction-lesson from the previous day, and so Segundus was kept engaged well until dinner- and Childermass did not get to spend all of the time with him, having his own duties and discussions to lead (and irate Vinculus to attend to). Though when he was there, he found himself distracted, thinking too often of how Segundus kept sitting instead of spinning around the room the way he would when especially excited, of how his skin kept a pallor even greater than its typical state, how sometimes he would close his eyes and touch his brow as if to dispel an ache there. He did not look entirely well. Childermass imagined the things he could not do- hold him, kiss his temples, tell him it was alright to sleep and that he needn’t fret, let the gentleman drift off in his arms. Perhaps tonight.

After dinner, the teachers and other researchers attending the school at any time would often sit down in the drawing room with a glass of sherry or a cigar, discuss matters of the day or of their interest while the students performed their duties. Tonight, however, the headmaster begged off, claiming he would prefer to retire early- and none begrudged him, most having seen his little spell that morning. As Segundus left he looked back into the room only briefly, catching Childermass’ eyes- and in his dark ones there was a summons that no part of Childermass could ignore.

After that, it was a matter of waiting out the torturous period of time before Childermass could make his own excuse without seeming suspicious- in this case, being that he had some letters to attend to- and follow him. It was good to always be cautious, but Childermass also knew he would be little missed- it was not that all disliked him, but he knew his presence was a disconcerting one, he who was a man born of one class and slowly climbing above it (neither gentleman nor servant, not anymore).

Before Childermass went to Segundus, however, he returned to his own little room, and from within his partly-unpacked saddlebags took the wrapped gift he had purchased back in London. No one was in the corridors when he left this room, nor on the second floor where Childermass went next, bypassing the chatter in the dorms and the clatter in the kitchen. It was quiet indeed, outside the headmaster's door.

Childermass slipped inside and closed it behind him, marking that familiar charm, and only once it was set did he allow himself to look into the room- when he did, he was sure he made a noise, something outrageous like a gasp or a grunt.

Segundus was seated at his desk as he often was, but he was not looking at his papers. He leaned across the back of it with his head resting in the crook of his elbow, fixing Childermass with a very intent stare. 

More importantly, he was only wearing his nightgown.

Childermass stared back, his eyes traveling over the length of Segundus’ body, admiring how it met so well with each fold of white fabric. He wore no stockings, his feet and legs were bare stretched out on the floor of the study, and Childermass felt far too warm at the sight. It wasn’t that he was unused to seeing Segundus in his nightgown- indeed, he was used to seeing Segundus _naked-_ but to see him seated there at his place of business in such a thing (with so wanton an expression Childermass felt he might _die)_ was highly titillating indeed.

“Well,” Childermass said dumbly, “Good evening.”

“Good evening,” replied Segundus with a smile, and it was such a warm and sweet smile it took some of the erotic intensity out of the scene (though none of the pleasure.) “What is that there?”

He gestured with his eyes to the package Childermass was carrying, which reminded him that it was there. With a touch of exasperation (directed towards himself) Childermass held it up.

“A present,” he said. “For you. I got it in London.”

“Oh!” Segundus looked quite surprised, blushing a little, and he stood to receive it (Childermass admired how the nightgown fell across his body as he did so.) “Thank you! I mean, I did not get you anything here…”

“You did not need to get me anything here,” Childermass told him. “It is for no occasion. I saw it and thought of you.”

Segundus gave him a very unbelievable look when he said that- all glittering dark eyes, pink cheeks, bitten lower lip- and took the package quite delicately, bringing it back to his desk. Childermass followed him there, feeling not unlike a puppet drawn along on a string.

The thing was only wrapped in rough brown packing paper, and when Segundus undid it a light flashed briefly from within. Segundus gasped.

“Oh, that is wonderful,” Segundus said. He lifted from the package a small, ovular mirror, only about a foot in length. It was decorated by an ornate wooden border- hawthorn wood, a wood that was conducive to certain kinds of magic. Indeed, the same kinds of magic as mirrors generally were. The shape was also helpful- flowing curves were superior to sudden angles in such matters. The surface of the thing was quite clean, not warped nor spotted from time, and in all it looked quite magical and magician-like. Childermass had in fact purchased it at an otherwise silly shop of magical ‘curiosities’ (mostly useless)- but though this could not do any of the ridiculous things the proprietor had promised him it was, in fact, quite a useful little tool for a magician to have. 

“Thank you very much,” Segundus repeated, admiring the mirror from a few angles. “I have been meaning to get a proper one of these. I shall have to find a place for it immediately. Oh!”

Segundus stuttered for a moment at his cluttered desk, pushing stacks of books this way and that, before abandoning it and instead moving to the other side of the study to the sturdy wooden table where he kept his silver scrying bowl. As he did so Childermass realized that the window before the desk had been left open a crack- cold night air slipped in beneath the part in the wood- and Childermass closed it the rest of the way, thinking nothing of it.

He turned and saw that Segundus had found a very neat little home for the mirror behind the silver bowl, where it reflected the darkness of the room and the view out the window in a very mysterious way. Yes, with this and all the books and all the unlit, forgotten candles, the room looked every part a magician’s den. Childermass chuckled to himself.

“There. I shall be sure to make use of it tomorrow,” Segundus said happily, folding his arms behind his back.

“Why not now?” Childermass asked. Many a pleasant night before this had been spent doing magic with one another, sometimes on the floor of Segundus’ study, sometimes on the bed.

“Oh, well…” Segundus shifted his bare feet on the carpet. “The truth is, I am quite exhausted. I do not know why, I did nothing very strenuous today. Tonight, I just wanted…”

He blushed a little then, and Childermass knew he would do absolutely anything that was asked of him.

“...I just wanted you to hold me.”

Segundus said this shyly, and Childermass felt like a warming stone had been placed just above his heart, a burning weight that was unimaginably fond. Childermass removed his outer jacket immediately, which caused Segundus to laugh, opening the door to his bedroom where they naturally went next.

Once there Childermass lay back on the pillows and Segundus curled against his chest, seeming to prefer that as a space to rest his head. Childermass kissed his crown and Segundus sighed sweetly, and for a little while there was nothing so warming or comfortable as simply holding him. Neither needed to say anything. What had Childermass gone and done to deserve this? Nothing came to mind, and he had memories of a long and quite varied life. John Segundus was a precious creature, he knew, he had known that from the first time he had seen him, all those years ago in York, when he had been so alone and so brave and all his clothes threadbare.

“Are you taking ill?” Childermass asked softly after a while. The question had begun eating him at breakfast despite all his better judgements, and now his tongue was weakened in a moment of sentimentality, letting it loose. “This morning, you...that was unlike you.”

Segundus sighed again, his fingers shifting on Childermass’ chest, the clearest betrayer of his nervous energy.

“It was strange,” he admitted. “I felt quite weak today. And chilled.”

“You said you didn’t sleep well,” Childermass prompted, wrapping his arms closer about Segundus’ waist in response to the second complaint. Segundus did not look up at him, instead cuddling closer under his chin, and replied:

“I did say that. It was not the entire truth. Actually, I had terrible nightmares.”

That hurt an honest part of Childermass’ heart. Oh, he was such a fool when it came to Segundus- even if there was realistically nothing he could do about bad dreams, he wished he could spare Segundus from them.

“Would you tell me what happened?” Childermass asked. He remembered that in his childhood this had been the common solution for nightmares- Black Joan had called it ‘drawing the poison’. Childermass had never really had nightmares of his own, at least not ones that bothered him when he woke, but at the moment he figured he’d probably do anything to stop Segundus sounding so sad.

“That’s the thing,” Segundus said, looking up at him plaintively. “I don’t remember them at all.”

“What I do remember,” he continued, before Childermass could say anything, “was that they weren’t usual nightmares- they couldn’t have been. Those one wakes from shaking and sweating, heart beating fast. When I woke this morning I was not sure if my heart was beating at all. I felt so cold, and so slow, so still...like I was underwater, or like I had _died…”_

Segundus’ voice became increasingly terrified as he spoke, and Childermass kissed the top of his head over and over again to soothe him. He took one of Segundus’ hands in his own- a hand that did, he thought, feel a little uncomfortably cold- and guided it to Segundus’ own throat, so he put two fingers to his jugular, just under the hem of his nightgown.

“There,” Childermass told him gently. “Do you feel that?”

Childermass felt it against his palm, pulsing in Segundus’ wrist. A heartbeat. Proof of life that strained against the thin blue veins that trapped it, eager to be heard.

“Yes,” Segundus said, eyes a little watery, and he smiled seemingly in spite of himself. “I know. It was a silly thing to think.”

“Not silly,” Childermass murmured. “That was a horrible dream.”

Segundus hummed, and he kissed Childermass for a moment, but only chastely for the effort of raising his head far seemed too much for him. After a moment he settled back down, wrapped close around Childermass’ body, comforted into silence. He did not cry anymore. Childermass held him and rubbed his back and before long Segundus had fallen asleep, his staggered breathing turning smooth and peaceful. Childermass did not blame him for this in the slightest. He was clearly exhausted, and it was better he rest than otherwise- regardless of the content of his nightmares, something was clearly amiss. Perhaps the fever he had gone through during Childermass’ time away had not fully left him, or was springing up again- hadn’t he said that one was due to stress and overexertion? He should sleep.

Childermass held him for as long as he could, careful not to slip away himself, and before the clock turned to midnight he went through the slow and arduous process of extracting himself from Segundus’ arms without waking him, and wrapping his sleeping body in the many plush blankets on the bed.

_Goodnight,_ Childermass thought, and he kissed Segundus’ temple lightly, feeling quite silly but figuring it did no harm. His own eyelids were becoming heavy, it was time enough to return to his own bed.

Childermass closed the bedroom door behind himself gently, and once in the study he noticed with some surprise that the window before the desk was open. Hadn’t he closed it? That was no good- perhaps something was the matter with the hinges. Childermass crossed the room and closed it again so as not to let in the cold air, and resolved to ask Segundus about it in the morning.

As he did this, he felt something very queer- a prickling sensation on the back of his neck, the familiar sensation he associated with being watched.

Childermass turned around.

It was foolish, of course, for there wasn’t anyone there- there _couldn’t_ be anyone there, the door was locked and charmed, and who would sneak into the headmaster’s study at this hour anyway? The room looked entirely ordinary, everything in it was still where it had been left, and the only eerie thing for the imagination was the darkness that came from the room being unlit at night. Nothing was amiss. 

Childermass rubbed the back of his neck to settle the gooseflesh that had risen there, and rolled his eyes at himself. Then he undid the charm on the study door and left it closed behind him, descending to his own rest once again.


	5. as idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean

The next day began much as the previous had- Childermass rose, did what pleased him, and joined the other faculty for breakfast at 8:00. Once again, Segundus was not on time.

This morning, however, he did not come down at all.

Childermass’ concern rose with the murmurings at the table and, before he had finished his own meal he stood, beckoning to Charles (who was attending).

“Let us see what has become of him,” he said gruffly, and he couldn’t say if his rough words disguised how fast his heart was beating. Segundus had dreamed of his own heart stopping- should Childermass have paid more attention? Had he been worse off than either of them guessed? This was catastrophizing and unlike him, but when it came to Segundus-

The headmaster did not respond when Charles knocked on the door to his apartments. There went any hope that he was in his study, perhaps caught up in a letter or a fancy in his silver bowl. The door was not locked either, through magic or metal. Childermass found himself passing through the empty study to the bedroom door ahead of Charles and, brashly, he opened it without knocking.

“Mr. Childermass-” Charles began, his tone scolding, but it fell away as he continued, “Good Lord.”

There was a frightening sight waiting for them. The room was in disarray, almost as if a small hurricane had passed through. All of the blankets and pillows had been stripped from Segundus’ bed and lay scattered about the floor; the candle on his bedside table had been knocked over, the books he kept there thrown about the room, their spines bent where they lay open, pages smushed against the floor. The contents of the dresser were left untouched, though the doors to them stood ajar. The man himself _was_ on the bed (at least), dressed in his rumpled nightgown. It was too strange how he lay there- square in the middle of the stripped mattress, lying strewn out on his back and as white as the abandoned sheets.

He did not look like he was breathing.

Childermass bolted to him, all instinct and animal panic, not a rational thought in his head. He could not care for propriety or appearances, not then. He found he could only care about one thing.

“Fetch a doctor,” he growled to Charles, and the only way he knew the man had gone was by the sound of his footsteps on the wooden floor, and that he barely attended.

“Segundus,” he said through gritted teeth, taking one of those white hands in his own and finding it as cold as ice. “John. John, can you hear me?”

Segundus did nothing, and Childermass almost snarled, putting his ear down over the left breast of Segundus’ chest. Desperate, his own heart was pumping high in his throat, and the instant that followed was one of the worst dread and deepest anticipation, and seemed so long that for a moment he almost despaired-

-but no, there it was. A slow-moving, steady rhythm. Childermass closed his eyes and let out a long, shuddering breath, feeling almost sick, his body suddenly covered in sweat and his hands shaking. Remembering himself a little, Childermass sat back on his heels, still holding Segundus’ hand. His face looked pinched and drawn, the black circles under his eyes so large and dark it was almost like someone had struck him. Carefully now Childermass took his shoulder and shook it lightly, and then a little more firmly when this did not bring him about.

Finally, Segundus’ eyes flickered back and forth behind their lids and he let out a low moan, chest rising as though his previous breaths had not been enough. Perhaps they hadn’t been. Slowly one eye cracked open, and then the other, drifting over the ceiling before focusing on Childermass’ face.

“Oh,” Segundus said quietly, in a voice that sounded broken from exhaustion. “It’s only you. I...ugh…”

He started to shiver suddenly, and Childermass saw his lips were almost blue from cold. He looked so pathetically confused, and why wouldn’t he? He had woken under absurd circumstances. Childermass grabbed a handful of blankets from his side of the bed and dragged them up, helping Segundus into a sitting position to wrap him in them. Segundus licked his lips a couple of times, as if they were dry (or as if he tasted something unpleasant there), and Childermass lamented that he didn’t have any water to offer.

“What happened?” Segundus asked quietly, clinging the blankets to himself as Childermass brushed some hair away from his forehead. They were stuck there with cold sweat that made all of Segundus’ skin shine, gaunt and glittering.

“You did not come down for breakfast,” Childermass told him gently. “You...you did not wake.”

Segundus shook his head. He was shivering all over now, perhaps from shock as much as cold, and his glassy eyes wandered around the room like he did not know what he was looking at.

“No,” he mumbled. “I mean...what happened to _me?”_

Childermass found his own eyes mirroring Segundus’, following them about the room. That was a good question. Segundus seemed unimaginably weak. What could have possessed him to throw his things about, to completely unmake his bed and then lie down upon it again? Did he have a fever? A very cold fever, if that was so, unless it had come upon him and burnt itself out within the same night.

“Were you dreaming?” Childermass asked, the idea coming to him only as he spoke it, and Segundus turned to look at him helplessly. He started to shake his head, a motion of confusion rather than true denial, and then they both were removed from their considerations by the sounds of approaching footsteps and concerned voices. Childermass gave Segundus’ hand a squeeze and then let him go, even though the anxious look on Segundus’ face almost broke his heart. To busy himself he began righting what had been disturbed overnight- closing the dresser doors and putting the books back on the table.

“Goodness gracious, Mr. Segundus!” said Mr. Honeyfoot, who led a pack of concerned faculty members into the room (including Mr. Hadley-Bright, Mr. Purfois, and Tom Levy), all who looked quite shocked at the state of the room, and of their headmaster. “Charles popped in to say he was going in town for the doctor- what in the world has become of you?”

“I don’t know,” said Segundus, pulling his blankets even closer around his body and curling his toes like he wished to hide himself. His voice was almost too quiet to hear. “I just woke up. I...I don’t remember anything.”

The other gentlemen all began to talk, debating the meaning of what they saw before them, comparing it to cases of distant family members or friends, or distant family members of distant friends. Levy, at least, made himself useful by heading down to the dining-room to have a tray fetched. Childermass tidied the bedroom, and with some shuffling was also able to restore the bed to order, so Segundus sat back against a stack of pillows and had his blankets to warm him. Childermass would have liked to kiss his head, perhaps, but that wasn’t possible in his current company.

“You cannot hold your lessons today,” said Mr. Honeyfoot, sitting down on the side of the bed once it was made. “You must rest, and wait for the doctor.”

“Oh, but…” Segundus murmured, and Childermass gave him a stern look to say he agreed. Honeyfoot was insisting on this, and he hadn’t even seen Segundus at first, just...lying there, so cold, so still...Childermass’ own heart hadn’t entirely slowed yet.

“Yes, you must! I will take over your teachings today,” Honeyfoot continued. He puffed his chest up in a show of good humour, which made Segundus smile. “I may not have quite your sensitivity, but I’ve been in the profession longer! I can certainly manage.”

“Longer?” Segundus asked teasingly. “If you count all the years Norrell put you out of commission, I am not so sure.”

They both laughed, and it was a relief, for Segundus seemed to be getting back to himself more and more as time passed. His eyes brightened and his hands smoothed the covers that lay across his lap, and as Childermass had tidied the room the nightmare image he had walked in upon seemed very distant indeed.

The next order of affairs was the arrival of breakfast- one of the maids (probably Hannah) had stacked up a tray with every possible source of comfort and nourishment, and so what was put across Segundus’ lap was far more than he would ever eat even in the best of health. He did not seem to have a large appetite either, though he drank a fair amount of milk tea. People came in and out of the room- Honeyfoot requesting the lesson-plans, Hadley-Bright expressing a variety of unusual treatments for any malady he had learned during the war under the Duke of Wellington, Miss Redruth to check Segundus’ health when she heard the kerfuffle. Childermass settled himself by the window, leaning against the frame, fairly certain he would be forgotten there by anyone who might wonder what his business was. Segundus occasionally smiled at him, an acknowledgment that his presence was welcome, and appreciated.

The doctor and Charles arrived roughly an hour-and-half after, when the breakfast dishes had been cleared. Segundus remained in bed at his friends’ request, but it was true that he did not seem up to the task. Though he had eaten some, and did speak when spoken to, he lay his head back against the pillows and his chest moved as though breathless, and he generally seemed too weak to do much with himself.

The doctor was a decent enough older fellow named Swain. He was somewhat acquainted with Segundus- Childermass supposed he would have to be, undoubtedly he had been contacted when the school had started up- and without complaint he settled into a regular examination, checking Segundus’ pulse and temperature and breathing while Segundus explained his condition.

“That is all?” the man asked when Segundus finished. “Chills, exhaustion, shortness of breath, and faintness after exercise?”

Segundus started to agree, but Childermass spoke over him, which startled the doctor quite badly- perhaps he had not realized Childermass was there. That was fairly typical.

“This morning, his room was in disarray,” Childermass said. “When I- when we found him all his things were thrown about the room. He was freezing to the touch.”

Perhaps his words did not adequately convey the horror of the scene, for the doctor seemed only mildly concerned by this- but then, he was not in love with Segundus. He had a little more objectivity, perhaps.

“Do you remember this?” Swain asked his patient, and Segundus said he didn’t, looking to one side like he was embarrassed by the revelation.

“Do you have a history of sleepwalking?” was the next question. Segundus seemed surprised by this.

“Oh- well, when I was a young boy I wandered at night occasionally,” he said. “I caused some trouble for my mother- but I grew out of it. I haven’t had any such incident for years.”

“Well, sometimes these things come back when we least expect it,” the doctor told him, his attitude making it clear that as far as he was concerned the matter was resolved. “I will give you some laudanum to help with sleep disturbances.”

Segundus accepted, though Childermass was not entirely happy with this conclusion- it was hard to picture Segundus doing anything so violent as tearing his own room apart, even if he was sleeping. Unless, perhaps, he was having an especially horrible nightmare? But what would cause such nightmares? Perhaps the laudanum was a good idea, if it would make his rest easier (though Childermass knew first hand that this drug did not always result in the most pleasant sleeping experiences).

“Apart from that,” the doctor continued, “based on your testament and my examination, I diagnose you with anaemia.”

“Anaemia?” Segundus echoed, pulling his blankets more tightly about himself.

“Yes, you have all the classic symptoms,” the doctor replied. “Not to worry- it is not terribly uncommon, and easy to treat- rest and eat lots of meat, especially organ meat, like liver. I’m sure you’ll be back to yourself in no time, and if you’re not, feel free to call upon me again.”

He smiled and took his hat, leaving Segundus looking slightly stunned in his bed. Childermass stopped the doctor before he could leave with a question and a step into his personal space.

“What could have caused it, sir?” he asked gruffly. “The anaemia, that is.”

_Segundus is not a pregnant woman or a pubescent girl,_ was what he didn’t say, these being the two groups most susceptible to the disease in question based on his knowledge (and both for very understandable reasons).

“Oh, well,” the doctor said somewhat uncomfortably, shuffling away from Childermass. “A poor diet would be the most likely cause. That, or severe blood loss. But I doubt you have been in a knife fight recently, hmm, headmaster?”

“No, no, of course not,” Segundus called feebly from the bed behind them, his voice wobbling as it made its way through the air. “Thank you very much for your help, doctor.”

The doctor bowed and took his leave, directed back to the front door by Charles. Hannah was then fetched and instructed to have dinner made with cow’s liver, which when upon hearing that the instruction came from the doctor, she took with great seriousness and determination. Perhaps someone had overheard and conveyed the doctor’s remarks about the ‘poor diet’ and she was taking them personally.

Then, once she had gone, Segundus and Childermass were left alone for a moment.

“He seemed a rather useless fellow,” Childermass grumbled, speaking of the doctor Swain.

“Why, because he did not wave a hand and cure me instantly?” The remark was mild and good-humoured, Segundus smiling at him gently as he spoke. “I suspect he is right. I haven’t eaten much recently, my appetite has been low.”

“Hmm,” was all Childermass said to that. It wasn’t that he disagreed- rationally, he supposed the doctor _was_ right. Perhaps he just didn’t like how flippant the man had seemed, after Childermass had seen Segundus that morning without his blankets, looking every part a fresh corpse. The chill of the image had still not left him entirely. 

“I do not know about that, though,” Segundus said, gesturing leerily to the sample laudanum bottle now sitting on his bedside table. “I have never fancied it.”

“Well,” Childermass said in a way that made it clear he agreed, and would leave the fate of its contents up to Segundus, who of the two was (admittedly) the better at taking care of his own body, having done so for half a lifetime already.

The rest of the day passed without event. Childermass only left Segundus to tend to himself or fetch his own paperwork which he did at Segundus’ desk, taking up the unofficial vigil of a servant watching a sickly master. No one remarked upon him there (save Vinculus, who left happily when he was told he could manage himself for the day) and Segundus did not mind much, though he seemed to think himself on the rise. He listened attentively to the reports the other teachers provided on the students throughout the day, a few of whom even came to wish him well. _He is well-loved,_ Childermass thought fondly. It was the least that Segundus deserved, but still true that good and kind and gentle people were often overlooked and suffocated in society. Childermass had done some of that suffocating. He was more than glad that Segundus was flourishing now- if in every way save his health.

That night a rich dinner was served, featuring most prominently a fat liver pie. Segundus was able to dress himself and come to the dining-room but he clearly struggled with the meal, disinclined to eating such heavy things even at his best, but though the conversation at the table did drift to magic or the school it continuously returned to the state of the headmaster, and whether he was eating enough, and if he had taken another bite since he had last spoken, and would he like some spirits to warm him? Childermass knew Segundus did not handle such attention comfortably, but he managed well enough, and once all had been devoured he was ushered back to bed quite attentively.

“You must take some of that laudanum and sleep the night away,” said Hannah, who seemed to figure herself an expert in care, the way that some women did. “You can’t disturb yourself sleepwalking- that was it, wasn’t it, Mr. Childermass? He was sleepwalking?”

Childermass grunted to reply, which could have meant anything, and Segundus assured her that he would do everything she suggested. His manner was ever so honest she believed him fully, and turned to leave, holding the study door open for Childermass expectantly. Ah, he was caught. It would be too strange to linger here, and he couldn’t claim he wanted to talk business if the headmaster was to be sleeping. Curse their hearts that had led them so astray, or better yet curse the world that made it so Childermass could not just marry the man and claim the nuptial bed.

“Goodnight then, sir,” he said roughly, and Segundus smiled at him a little sadly. He looked too translucent standing there alone in the doorway to his bedroom- insubstantial, much like he had on that day when Starecross had still been a madhouse, when Lady Pole’s enchantment had been broken. As if his presence was not fixed entirely in this world.

“Goodnight. And don’t fret,” Segundus told him, slipping away into his room to let Childermass go. “I have been spoiled enough already.”

Childermass returned to his own room then, not in the mood to chatter with the faculty or with the servants, and Hannah seemed to understand. She knew him well enough from before, in Mr. Norrell’s service. 

Childermass didn’t find sleep easy, and more than once in the early evening he poked his head out, wondering if he could manage to sneak back to Segundus- if nothing else, to kiss his sleeping forehead- but the halls were always busy and with no good excuse he couldn’t chance it. Eventually the hour became too late, he knew he should resign himself, as there was no sense in disturbing Segundus then.

When he lay down on his bed, Childermass realized that he was actually exhausted- a weight manifested in his limbs and dragged him down against the mattress, and in little time his consciousness was enveloped in the black.

The next morning Childermass woke slowly. He felt like he had drunk too much last night, even though he knew he hadn’t drunk at all. When he finally broke the seal on his eyelids and checked his pocket-watch he was shocked to find the hour had grown late- and as soon as he did paranoia set in. He was not accustomed to having his own functions put out of place. Was he really so exhausted? And what could have happened while he was sleeping? Segundus’ rooms were so remote, what if he had slipped into a state like he had yesterday morning? Would anyone have bothered to check on him?

Childermass dressed himself quickly, barely caring to retie his hair against the nape of his neck, and made his way for the stairs. Halfway up them, however, his fears were assuaged, as he nearly bumped into the man in question.

“Oh! Good morning!” Segundus said. His voice was rather breathy, but he smiled, and he was dressed and seemingly steady on the steps. “I...did you just wake up?”

Childermass made a dumb noise, and Segundus laughed rather sweetly, which revealed Childermass was terribly obvious- unwashed and running up the stairs like a madman. Well. He thought he was perfectly justified.

“Come to breakfast when you are a little more presentable, sir,” said Segundus in more bold a voice than before, and as he passed Childermass on the staircase he whispered very softly in his ear: _“I love you.”_

Childermass turned and looked down at Segundus’ back as he made his way to the dining-room. He seemed perky enough- perhaps all he really had needed was a liver pie and a good night’s sleep. Strange, but hardly unfortunate.

The next few days did nothing to dampen the assumption. Segundus was on time for breakfast the next morning, and the morning after that. His energy wavered- he still seemed weaker than he should be, sitting down rather than standing when he could, often out of breath, the darkness under his eyes still deep. He resumed his duties in waves, and refrained from performing magic in his lessons, for that always tired him and put him out of sorts (no one begrudged him this). But steadily he seemed to be improving.

By the end of the week, Childermass allowed his heart to settle, for Segundus was quite firm in the belief of his own recovery.

“Tomorrow, let us go out on the moor,” Segundus said contentedly to him Friday night, snuggling into his blankets as Childermass prepared for his departure. “I believe some fresh air will do me good, after being an invalid this last week. And there are no lessons in the morning.”

“Very well, if you’re up to it,” Childermass said, pulling on his boots. Segundus gave him a very self-satisfied little smirk, and that was that. Fresh air _would_ do him good at this stage of recovery. It would be very pleasant a pastime, especially if the weather was warm- no one would be there to overhear their conversation, and so they could be as cordial as they wished. Childermass didn’t doubt Segundus’ strength- he was nearly back to himself entirely, if tonight’s activities had been any indication. Childermass even had a small stinging mark under his collar where Segundus had nipped him (fancy that! he could be a wild little thing, sometimes). Yes, whatever wrong had befallen Segundus, he had surely surpassed it by now.

Childermass went to bed that night with a light heart.


	6. we men and women are like ropes

But the anticipated trip never came about- it couldn’t. Saturday morning, Segundus woke (if one could call it that) in a state of complete relapse. Charles was in fact the one who found him- the morning sun had risen with a chill, and he had gone to see if Segundus needed any coal for his fire, only to find him unresponsive, as pale and cold as death, just as he had been all those days ago. Childermass had been tending to the horses, and had not heard until he was called- until Hannah poked her head out the front door and called for him, and the panic that sounded so clear in her voice turned his hopes to dread.

By the time he got there Segundus had been roused and returned to his bed- for yes, according to what Childermass had been able to prise from Charles _he had not been in it._ Segundus had been found sleeping at his desk, still wearing only his thin white nightgown, the window before him thrust wide open and morning dew decorating his hair and papers. 

Segundus looked up at Childermass from the bed as he spoke with Charles, and it was not a look Childermass was accustomed to- it was not an expression that Segundus ever wore. His eyes were ringed in black again, his face so pale it resembled a skull, and there was absolutely nothing in the dark colour of his irises- no interest, no concern, no affection. Never did Segundus have such lifeless looking eyes. It was this that scared Childermass the most.

“Should I fetch the doctor again?” Charles asked uncertainly when he had finished explaining.

“Yes,” Childermass snapped, which was ungrateful maybe but at the moment he had no room left for patience, when so much of his mind was taken up by worry.

“No, don’t go, Charles,” said Segundus, which surprised both of the other men quite thoroughly, for it was the first thing he had said that morning. His voice was strong but harsh, sounding like it scraped something on the way out. “I doubt he will have anything new to say, it is best not to bother him. Please...fetch me some tea, I feel I need it.”

Charles bowed out immediately, treating the request with as much urgency as if he _had_ been sent to the doctor, which left Segundus and Childermass alone. Childermass was not convinced.

“You are ill, sir,” he growled. “You should see a doctor.”

Segundus sighed coldly and lay back on his pillows, fixing Childermass with another strangely expressionless stare.

“I do not want to see him,” he said mildly, rubbing at his neck with one hand. “I see too many strange men.”

“What?” 

“What?” Segundus echoed, and he laid his hand to rest against his chest. He blinked distinctly and light returned to his eyes in that moment, his expression shifting suddenly into one of simple confusion. He looked around the room for a moment as if he was not sure how he had come to be there.

“What do you mean?” Childermass tried again. Segundus sighed in a much more familiar way, looking quite pathetically at Childermass, all alight with discomfort and unhappiness and something a little too like shame.

“Oh, the doctor will only say it is my fault,” he said miserably. Now his voice was soft, breathless, much weaker than before. He sounded like himself. “He will say I overexerted myself. I know I must have.”

Childermass sat down slowly on the bed beside him, brushing some black curls from his forehead. Segundus closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, and between his eyelashes Childermass was sure he saw a gathering of tears.

“It is not your fault you are sick,” he said, as gently as he could. “Perhaps it is all of ours, for assuming you cured before you were.”

Segundus opened one eye to look at him- sure enough, there was a tear, and it slid down his temple at the prompting of a blink.

“I’m sorry we will not get to go out,” he said. “I was looking forward to it.”

Childermass turned to look back out the bedroom door and, neither seeing nor hearing anyone, leaned down to kiss Segundus’ forehead.

“Easy,” he told him, smoothing his hair back. “Don’t worry yourself over little things.”

Segundus gave him a watery smile, but who was to say how convinced he was? Childermass knew first hand how skilled Segundus was at putting on a brave face. Poor thing. Poor, strong, wonderful, beloved thing.

They were interrupted by Charles returning with the tea tray, some early breakfast laid upon it to boot, and Childermass retreated to his sulking spot by the window while Segundus forced himself into a sitting position. It looked like a great effort. Childermass knew in a background kind of way that Segundus was probably right about his illness, but Childermass still wished he could call the doctor anyway.

It wasn’t long before the whole household knew that Segundus had fallen ill again. This time, the buzz and murmurings were far less good-natured than before- the affair now had a sense of real danger to it. Mr. Honeyfoot called to mind the truth that Segundus had been sick since _before_ Childermass had returned from his trip to London- a matter that now seemed so long ago Childermass was dismayed to hear it. People died from smaller things, and Segundus had ever been too close to frail...but to think of that was to think of the worst despair, and Childermass could not bear it.

Segundus did not manage himself as elegantly as he had the first time. He did not make any protest to being declared bedridden, and fell in and out of sleep as the hours passed, eating small amounts of food and drinking hot tea, only leaving his bed to attend to himself in the water closet. His skin stayed cold to the touch, and he complained lightly to Childermass (who again, did not leave him) of the sunlight coming in from outside giving him a headache (to which Childermass immediately closed the curtains and explained this curtly to anyone who asked him about it). Dinner was served early and brought to his room, Childermass having made the conclusion that Segundus need not trouble himself by struggling down the stairs- a feat that looked too difficult for his shaking limbs. Segundus said nothing to the contrary. He had been very quiet that day, barely saying anything to Childermass (or anyone) when he was not sleeping. Of the rich meal he only managed a few mouthfuls before he was too nauseous to continue.

“Drinking is easier,” he said by way of apology as the tray was cleared. A thin sheen of sweat had formed across his brow, and Childermass would have dabbed it away if he had a clean handkerchief on him. “My throat hurts- it is too tight to eat.”

“You need to eat to cure your anaemia,” Hannah told him, her brow half-stern and half-worried. “That’s what it is, right, Mr. Childermass? You need lots of red meat. When I was a lass I had a similar problem.”

“If I could drink that then I would,” Segundus murmured, and it was such an odd thing to say that Childermass looked over at him, but Segundus didn’t meet his gaze. He was looking past his shoulder at the window in the bedroom, like he was attempting to peer through the curtains, an intensity in his dark eyes that wasn’t usually there. He picked at the collar of his overshirt with one hand and didn’t even seem to notice when Hannah took her leave, the plates on the tray clattering as she backed out of the bedroom door.

“How do you feel now?” Childermass asked him selfishly, all to bring those eyes back to his face. Segundus’ focus was broken, and he sighed, putting his head back down on the pillows.

“How many times have I been asked that today?” he said instead of answering, and Childermass laughed softly in reply, which rewarded him with a thin, wan smile and an arm that flopped out of the bed to reach him.

Childermass took the offered hand and (after a cautious peek down into the study) kissed the soft white palm. Segundus’ skin felt dry in a way that made it strangely silky, and Childermass noticed that his nails had grown out a little further than he usually let them (no doubt having not had the time for such concerns lately).

“You are so warm,” Segundus said weakly, and Childermass kissed the inside of his wrist. “Everyone...everything else is so cold.”

Childermass couldn’t help but sigh when he heard that- the tightness in his chest that was anxiety rose up again and clutched at him. Those were not the words of a healthy man. Those were not the words of a man who was only mildly ill. Those were not words Childermass wanted to hear Segundus say.

“You’ll be alright,” Childermass told him, a prayer as much as a consolation; “You just need to rest. You’ll be better again in no time.”

“I do not mean to complain,” said Segundus rather sweetly, smiling, perhaps, at the undoubtedly distraught expression on Childermass’ face. “But it is so tiring to assume oneself well and then be proven wrong again. I-”

He coughed dryly then, drawing out of Childermass’ reach, and as he did so someone called out from the corridor- Charles, who made his way into the study, quieting his voice only when approaching the sickly atmosphere of Segundus’ bedroom.

“Mr. Childermass, sir,” he said, “you must come down to the kitchen- Vinculus has got himself into some trouble.”

“What?” Childermass growled- not necessarily at Charles, but rather at the man who could not hear him. What was he doing, making messes at such a time as this? Truth be told, Childermass had been surprised at how docile Vinculus had been lately, neither demanding any attention nor causing his regular mischief. Well, perhaps the dry spell had worn off.

“Stay with Mr. Segundus,” Childermass told the messenger, which was unnecessary since the man was already pulling up a chair. Segundus gave him a slightly rueful little smile and then closed his eyes, turning his head to the side on the pillow. At least he was safe.

Childermass made his way down the stairs to the kitchen in something of an ill temper. He did not feel he had time to be cleaning up after Vinculus, Keeper or Reader or whatever he was regardless. Most books could be shelved for a few days while their master handled some more pressing business without difficulty. Most books did not entertain themselves by stealing from the pantry and hiding people’s things, or harassing guests with ill-thought or lewd parlour tricks. But then again, most books were not written by the Raven King.

Childermass found Hannah and some of the other maids in quite a state in the kitchen. There were signs that something had been spilled, and quite a lot of high-pitched shouting, and no sign of his errant charge.

“He put a _rat_ in here!” one girl called, and upon spotting him Hannah gestured furiously out the back door towards the garden, which Childermass took as his direction.

Vinculus was found outside, crouching by the bins, seemingly picking through the dirt at their base. The pre-twilight air was chilled, signs of sunset pink in the clouds above them, and Childermass realized how warm and stuffy the inside of the house had become for the first time since...well, many hours had passed since he had last stepped outside.

“The girls were complaining about a rat,” Childermass told Vinculus’ hunched back. “That is a mean spirited prank. They are the ones who feed you, you know.”

Vinculus shrugged, and he turned around, holding up a long, fat earthworm pinched between his thumb and forefinger for Childermass to see. The thing wriggled in the air, testing for its escape, and for some reason the sight made Childermass nauseous.

“Wasn’t my rat,” Vinculus said. “Like this isn’t my worm.”

“I don’t care if it wasn’t your rat,” Childermass told him. “Don’t be causing trouble.”

“This isn’t your worm either, Reader,” said Vinculus, standing up on one leg and bringing the squirming thing closer to Childermass’ face. “Look at it- do you really think this is a proper English worm? Or that it was a proper English rat? There are all sorts of unbelonging things wandering about Starecross these days.”

“What are you on about?” Childermass asked, and Vinculus dropped the worm, taking Childermass by the arm in his dirty grip.

“Come,” he hissed, breath hot and sharp in Childermass’ face, and then they set off deeper into the garden. Childermass did not try to pull away. Vinculus said useful things sometimes, even though he was no longer a prophecy- and his demeanour did not suggest that this was one of his regular games. The colours in his eyes had been far too bright.

At this stage of the year, most of the things that would be grown in the garden were still covered in their winter protections, and fresh grass was only starting to peek its head through the soil. Dead leaves from the previous fall could still be seen, tucked into corners where they had been missed by the groundskeepers, rattling in the breeze like bad omens. Vinculus did not stick to the path, instead raising his gangly legs to step over bushes and would-be flowerbeds, stopping abruptly once they reached the shadow of a particular tree. 

“Look,” he insisted, yanking Childermass forward by the shoulder, and so Childermass did.

They had stopped before what appeared to be a rat path, though it was wider and deeper than Childermass would have considered normal. He could see paw prints fixed in the torn-up earth, and they had all the distinctive markings of a rat’s feet, only they were much larger. In the indents a certain darkness gathered- spots of something like mud, only blacker than the soil that surrounded it.

At Vinculus’ prompting Childermass followed the path North, past the garden into the small woods that bordered the edge of the Starecross grounds. A quarter of an hour at least went by as they walked, and the sun dipped ever lower. The black mulch grew more frequent in occurrence along their path, and as darkness fell Childermass began to see other strange things- huge earthworms that shifted in the dirt, beetles with hard shells the size of his thumb that crawled lazily across the ground, weeds with limp, dark green leaves that sprung up and had been devoured by the insects. It was too early in the season to be seeing insects yet, nevermind weeds, and all were of a nature Childermass knew to be foreign to Starecross- if not foreign to England.

Vinculus made a show of not stepping on any of these strange creatures, and so Childermass did the same.

Before long they approached the edge of the grounds, and as they did so a new sound reached Childermass’ ears- rustling and squeaking, fervent high-pitched noises that increased in volume and intensity as they approached, until the sound seemed to be coming from all around them. The shadows of the trees were long and dark, the wind cold where it rustled their leaves, the earth beneath their feet transfigured to a black and sticky mulch that smelled like peat.

...was this really Starecross still?

The thought chilled Childermass to his bones. But then, no- with a casual look about he could see that it was. The woods behind them did not shrink away, and through the branches the roof of the house could still be distantly seen, clear and steadfast in the last light of the setting sun. He could see candles being lit in the distant windows. Before them, through the shadowy trees, the simple English moor so properly situated beyond it was visible as well. There was no sense of enchantment in the air- Childermass felt quite level-headed, if a bit unsettled, and though the air smelled faintly sour it predominantly smelled of England. In short, this did not seem to be a matter of _fairy_ magic...which was a relief, though it did not necessarily mean that _no_ magic was involved.

“Oh, it is not what you think,” Vinculus told him, confirming this. “But it is certainly _something,_ is it not?”

With a few more steps, in a hollow at the edge of the woods they found the source of the squeaking. There was a pit in the earth, perhaps five feet wide and at least three deep, which was absolutely teeming with rats. Fat, black-furred rats, rats with bald tails like malignant little whips and eyes that gleamed red when they caught the light, rats that chattered in voices louder and more insane than typical beasts. They did not seem to notice the two men in their midst- too busy were they writhing around in their hole, all seemingly desperate for something, their cries echoing against the trees. Upon closer examination, their black pelts were revealed as ragged, their sides glistening with fresh and old wounds, occasional flashes of white or yellow appearing in places- sickeningly, Childermass realized that these were exposed bones.

“Are they...eating each other?” Childermass asked. Vinculus did not answer. He scratched at his cheek with a dirty nail, an unreadable expression on his face. Then he said this:

“I am requested to join them. There is a voice in the moon that asks for me.”

_“What?”_

Vinculus looked over in amusement at the tone of his voice, a familiar little smirk curving his lips up under the matted hair on his face.

“Oh, do not worry, Reader,” he said. “I do not listen to it. I like to do things my way. And besides, it is not the King giving orders- so why should I obey?”

Childermass let out a long breath hearing this, leaning against one of the trees. Vinculus tittered at him, which was the least he deserved, and then they both went back to looking at the pit of cannibal rats- still, the animals did not seem bothered in the slightest by two men standing before them, which was an even greater relief- Childermass did not like to think of what might happen if the beasts suddenly decided they wanted a taste of larger game.

“Has anyone else seen this?” Childermass asked, and Vinculus shrugged to say he didn’t know. Well, probably not- they were a ways out from the house, and there wasn’t yet much reason to be here, the days still too cold for outdoor lessons or gardening.

“How long has this been happening?” was the next question.

“Oh, a few days at least,” said Vinculus. “Started pondering it myself at twilight yesterday.”

Childermass nodded, accepting this. It was good that no one seemed to have been harmed yet- and he was pleasantly surprised that Vinculus had chosen to tell him about it, seeing how oblivious he himself had been, wrapped up in other worries. Still, he found himself deeply unsettled by his own ignorance- shouldn’t he have noticed something like this already, something that reeked of black magic right outside his home? Shouldn’t he have felt it, or smelled it on the air?

“And how is your prince, Snow White?” Vinculus asked suddenly, and Childermass started, not understanding at first- though when he did he felt a sick kind of anger stir inside him, an anger fueled by fresh fear.

“That’s a fine name for the man housing you,” he said, mouth numb despite the sarcastic cant of his words. Vinculus shrugged, offering another self-pleased smirk, picking at his ear with his pinky.

“But it's the truth. _Skin as white as snow, hair as black as ebony, and lips as red as blood.”_

“Segundus has gray in his hair,” Childermass told him, as if that made the moniker any less unreasonable, the implications any less dreaded. But Vinculus did not seem convinced.

“Are you sure, Reader? Look at him again. Maybe he’ll surprise you.”

Vinculus turned away then, heading back to the house, and after a moment’s contemplation Childermass followed him. There was a lot to think about here. He would need to warn the residents of Starecross, look into setting up protection spells- or curing spells, if this was some kind of curse. Whoever would be inclined to curse them he could not say- even whose magic this was, and what kind, he could not say. He would need to follow up with Vinculus on the matter of the voice in the moon, learn _exactly_ what it said, if it truly spoke words at all…

Entering the garden again, Childermass found the sun had set, the last line of pink on the horizon faded to darkness. Vinculus was long gone, and standing there Childermass was struck for the first time with the thought that this might be _Segundus’_ magic. He was not suited to cruel or filthy things like this, not in the slightest, but always had the venue of magic most responsive to him been those of flowers and gardens and other growing things. Insects too- just last summer he had accidentally charmed a swarm of butterflies so that they followed him around, nesting on his shoulders and in his hair. He had been terribly embarrassed, but to Childermass he had been the most beautiful thing in the world.

If Segundus was sick, perhaps his magic was running wild with it- perhaps in the nightmares he couldn’t remember he turned the garden to decay, and made all the wild things that listened to him mad. It wasn’t the most unlikely idea. Childermass had long suspected that Segundus was more powerful than he thought he was.

So there were plenty of reasons to go to him at once, and Childermass reset his feet on the familiar path to the headmaster’s chambers. He was stopped, however, just upon entering the kitchen at the sight of Charles at the cupboards clearing away the last of the dishes from the evening meal with the maids.

“Why aren’t you watching Segundus?” Childermass asked, even blunter than usual, finding in himself neither time nor energy for graceful words. Charles startled guiltily, surprised to see Childermass there, returned from a long walk with black mud on his boots and no cowed companion to show for it. Well.

“He sent me away,” Charles said nervously. “He said he needed to sleep.”

“Alright,” Childermass said, the closest he could come to a mollification. It would be better if Charles wasn’t there, anyway. If Segundus was already resting, well, Childermass had no problem staying awake the night to watch him- and to spend time searching his own memory and the school’s limited historical resources for information on disturbances resembling what he had seen in the garden. If there was black magic at work- and Childermass had little doubt of that- then he didn’t want to leave Segundus unattended for a moment (even if the magic was his).

The hall was quiet as Childermass made his way through it and up the stairs, leaving the flustered Charles behind. Segundus’ apartments were quieter still, and unlocked. Childermass did not call out when he opened the study door, assuming Segundus to be asleep, and did not knock on the entrance to the bedroom, knowing he would not be unwelcome if he simply slipped inside. But the bedroom was also quiet- impossibly quiet, without those soft sounds such as breathing made by the sleeping human form. There was no one in the room to welcome him- the bed was empty, and the window thrust wide open.

Segundus was gone.


	7. souls and memories do strange things in a trance

Childermass turned on his heels and was running in an instant. The urge to leap down the stairs- to throw himself to the four winds, plunge into the night like a vandal- was powerful, but he contained it with reason, and snatched Segundus’ silver bowl from its little table on the way out. He did not need to examine the bedroom further, to see if Segundus was hidden away in some secret crook of the blankets, resting under his own bed like a buried thing- he knew instinctively that Segundus was not there.

It would be better if he was. No good came to Englishmen who vanished from their beds at night.

Childermass was in the kitchen again before any of the staff there could cry out, slopping water from the basin into the silver bowl and steadying it on the table. He could hear someone speaking to him in a loud, alarmed voice, but he did not attend to the words. The water in the basin sparkled, and Childermass held up his fingers before it, drawing upon the surface a shimmering circle to begin the spell.

The urge to cross the lines in a way that distinguished _England_ and _Faerie_ was strong, but once again Childermass quashed it, fighting to remain practical. He couldn’t afford to get caught up on emotion in a situation like this, not when it could mean the difference between finding Segundus and failing him. So first, Childermass divided the circle into four narrow categories- _Starecross House, Starecross Village, Starecross Gardens,_ and _Starecross Grounds._

It was in this last quarter that a small light appeared.

Almost shuddering with relief Childermass tapped on this quarter to enlarge it, and divided it again into the cardinal directions, and this told him that Segundus was on the walking paths to the West of the house, the ones that his own rooms overlooked.

“He’s outside,” Childermass said to no one in particular, though when he looked up he rediscovered that he was not alone- Charles was staring at him with an expression squarely between alarm and wonder, hands hovering above the table Childermass was using like he was afraid to touch it.

“...is that magic, sir?” he asked, and Childermass ignored him, leaving the basin behind as he spun out into the night for the second time, unminding of the cold or the dark.

Childermass ran around the garden, turning not North the way he had to follow the rat-path with Vinculus, but West, into the pleasantly paved and bush-lined walking paths that filled this section of the grounds. Some trees grew here as well, but they were managed ones, planted and pruned in specific shapes and locations to be soothing to the eye. In summer, Segundus often taught lessons out here, in the small stone courtyards one could find throughout- but the weather was too cold for that yet. The fog of his own breath obscured Childermass’ vision.

“Mr. Segundus!” Childermass called, but there was no response. What if he had fainted out here? It was cold, and he would not be able to respond. Childermass was considering that perhaps he should have enlisted help back in the house- but before he could think on this too deeply a flash of white caught his racing eyes, and he turned towards it.

_There._

Segundus was walking down one of the narrower paths between the trees, not ten yards from Childermass. He was wearing only his damnably thin nightgown, which was why Childermass had spotted him in the first place. Childermass made some noise- a cry of relief he himself didn’t hear- and closed the distance between them, until he could catch Segundus by the arm.

For a moment, it did not seem that Segundus knew he was there. Like that morning, there was no expression on his face, and his eyes were vague and unseeing, looking ahead of him as if in a dream. Sleepwalking? What a good and simple answer if it were true-

Segundus snapped to attention suddenly and his expression twisted into an unfamiliar one- an expression of raw fear and _rage._ He yanked Childermass’ hand away, his own grip ice cold, and took several wavering steps back on the path.

 _“Don’t you dare touch me!”_ he shrieked, and so great was the panic in his eyes Childermass was struck dumb. “Get away from me- _get out of my head!_ I know what you are doing you, you _devil,_ you _thief-”_

He broke off coughing, a dry cough that wracked his body with each spasm and he took a few more stumbling steps away before falling on the flagstones, legs too weak to hold him up under the stress. Once there he struggled to catch his breath, but when he looked up at Childermass there was something quite different in his eyes- the fear was still there, but now it was accompanied by recognition, and as such Childermass assumed it was safe to kneel down before him, holding his hands up as a proclamation of innocence.

“John?” Segundus said weakly. He began to shiver, the cold finding him at last. Like this, it was all too apparent how fragile Segundus was- he looked like he had lost weight (having started out rather small already) and his skin was sickly pale, shining with a sweat that stuck his hair to his forehead and made his eyes wild. He did not belong out here in the dark.

“Yes,” Childermass told him, still inching closer like he was an injured animal (because, well, in a sense he was). “Yes, sweet. It’s alright.”

“Oh, John,” Segundus repeated, and he held up one hand to reach for him, the palm of which Childermass now saw had been scraped bloody catching his fall on the stones. “Please- _something is terribly wrong.”_

“I know,” Childermass said, and Segundus looked up at him with an expression of incredible relief, the first in a large gathering of bright tears spilling onto his cheeks.

Childermass embraced him then, unable to resist, and Segundus did not pull away. He buried his face in Childermass’ neck and began to cry, so that instead of coughs it was sobs that made him shudder.

“I can’t remember,” he choked out between them, and Childermass could feel his chest fluttering, lungs struggling for air. “I can never remember- it’s being taken from me- already I can’t...I don’t know how I got here.”

“Do you remember...who you thought I was?” Childermass asked softly, and for a moment Segundus froze, and Childermass knew he had hit on an important question.

But, “No,” Segundus whimpered, and then his crying devolved into wordlessness, hot tears soaking the fabric of Childermass’ shirt.

For what felt like a long time they sat there curled on the cold stone, Childermass doing all he could to keep that slender figure warm while Segundus let out his poison. He became very glad that no torches appeared in the night, no calling voices- the last thing Segundus needed was to be put in the spotlight, even if it was by concerned friends. He kissed the top of Segundus’ head, smelling panic in the sweat between his follicles, and discovered that his forehead was warm to the touch, even though his extremities were chilled- he had a fever, then.

“Let’s get you back inside,” Childermass murmured when Segundus’ sobs trickled out into silence. He had a feeling that it was because Segundus was too tired to keep crying, not because his feelings had been eased. Segundus pulled back enough for Childermass to see his face- his eyes and lips were swollen, his nose bright pink, cheeks mottled white and red from the effort. His eyelashes were stuck together in clumps. Childermass kissed him on the cheek.

Segundus seemed even too tired to speak, and he let Childermass pull him to his feet, guide him back towards the house. As they walked he looked about him, tensing at the sight of the shadowy trees, clutching at Childermass’ shirt with bloodied hands. Childermass winced at that- those needed to be cleaned up properly, and fast.

When they reached the stoop of the kitchen door Segundus turned suddenly, looking back into the night behind them with a frightful intensity in his eyes. Childermass felt a prickling at the back of his neck, a strong one, all the hairs there raised and a small army of beetles ran down his back in a chill.

“What is it?” Childermass asked, turning back to look. The garden behind them was very dark now, for a cloud had covered the moon, and he saw nothing- but this did not dissuade him from the feeling that _something_ was out there, standing just between the unseen trees- _something_ was watching them.

“Please,” Segundus whispered, his voice harsh and breathless, and he clutched at the collar of his nightgown. What he meant- and who he was speaking to- Childermass did not know. What he did do was usher them inside and close the door tightly behind them, forbidding the gaze of whatever presence was out there in the night.

“Oh, good heavens, Mr. Childermass!” the voice was that of Hannah, who seemed quite shocked by his return. The kitchen was warm and well-lit still, smelling of dried herbs and former meals and other entirely wholesome things. “And- but Mr. Segundus is supposed to be in bed!”

“Well, he’s not there,” Childermass said dully, and he guided a dazed-looking Segundus around her so he could sit in a chair. “But he will be soon. Fetch some warm water, Hannah, and bandages.”

She did that, and gathered Charles from somewhere too, and the pair helped as Childermass cleaned and dressed Segundus’ wounds, washed his bare feet and dabbed a cool cloth on his feverish forehead. Segundus barely seemed to notice, his eyes often slipping closed, and thankfully neither needed to be told much- they knew he was ill, and that he had somehow taken up sleepwalking, and so all explanations were already given.

“I’m sorry I did not stay with him,” Charles said. “I could have prevented his leaving. And I’m sorry I did not understand what you were doing, Mr. Childermass, when you came in here with that basin…”

Childermass told him to think nothing of it, and as they were speaking they were joined by a third nighttime visitor- Tom Levy, who also had a room on the first floor. He was still dressed, and no doubt the commotion had called him.

“What’s happened here, then?” he asked, and the servants explained. When they were finished, however, Childermass added:

“We will need to talk about something in the morning. With everyone- faculty first, and then the students and staff. It is...a matter of everyone’s safety.”

Levy nodded carefully and, after it was determined no more help was needed, took his leave. Segundus did not watch him go- it seemed as if he was too exhausted to even attend to the other magician’s presence.

Childermass took him back to his room and dismissed the other servants at the door.

“Are you sure, sir?” Charles asked- perhaps he felt guilty for his failure to keep Segundus indoors earlier. “You have done enough tonight…”

“I will be fine,” Childermass told him. “I have some thinking to do anyway.”

At last, then, Segundus was returned to bed, a place he collapsed into so weakly it seemed that where his limbs first fell was where they were fated to stay. Though he asked for no help- and indeed, said nothing at all- Childermass tucked him in and kissed him, and debated lying down there himself- but that could be dangerous. If he overslept someone could find them- and he was worried that if he became too comfortable he might sleep deeply, through any disturbances. Arabella Strange had been stolen from her husband while he slept in the same bed- fairy magic or not, Childermass wasn’t going to let the same thing happen to Segundus.

Thinking this, he closed the windows in both the study and the bedroom quite firmly, and also tied shut their curtains. Whatever had been watching them outside would not leer in on Segundus while he slept.

Childermass settled himself in the room’s armchair, thinking Segundus was already deep in sleep, and went to blow out the candle- but before he could Segundus spoke, and Childermass saw that one of his eyes was open, peering darkly out from under the covers.

“Leave the light on,” he whispered, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. “I’m afraid of what will happen in the dark.”

Childermass agreed, and the eye closed, Segundus sighing in a way that made his voice sound like a winter wind. His posture relaxed, and Childermass watched his breathing become even, his face smoothed by peace in a way that made him look much younger than he was- even with the shadows collecting against his skin, he looked more like a man of twenty than thirty-five. Strange- was that merely an aspect of the state of innocence?

Childermass remembered then what Vinculus had said, and he leaned over the bed, inspecting Segundus’ hair where it lay- black curls on a white pillow. Segundus had a few veins of very obvious gray in his hair, and they had only increased over the time that Childermass had known him (privately, Childermass had always liked these small decorations- on another man they might be aging or stately, but somehow on Segundus they were pretty, like most things were). Childermass knew he did. Was that not how he saw Segundus in his mind? Was that not featured on the Segundus in every one of his memories? 

...why could he not find a single one?

Childermass ruffled through Segundus’ hair (gently so as not to wake him) but there was no gray in it to be found. His hair was all black, raven-black, a pure black without any hint of dustiness or fade. Had it ever been this dark? Childermass began to doubt himself. Under the brightest summer sun, he had thought it was made clear that Segundus’ hair (like his eyes) was really brown, hidden and dipped into the illusion of ‘black’ by lesser lighting. This wasn’t right. Or was it?

Childermass sat back down on the armchair and covered his eyes with his hands. It was late, he was exhausted, and the flickering candle was a poor companion for middle-aged eyes. Perhaps his memory was playing tricks on him.

...but he did not think Vinculus was wrong.

Something was deeply amiss- Segundus had said so himself. In the morning Childermass would set to work on righting it, and hope he was not too late. That was the most he could do- in the end, he was only a man.

What else was it, that Vinculus had said? Segundus’ hair had turned black as ebony, and now he certainly was as white as snow- he had always been to some extent, but in his illness he did not blush and glitter so readily, his complexion stuck fast to pale and drawn. Childermass uncovered his eyes and looked over at Segundus’ sleeping face again- his lips looked dry, but they too were white.

As red as blood? No, that much wasn’t true. Blood was very red. Childermass knew that.

...

The night was long, and in it a number of strange things happened- things that solidified the urgency with which Childermass now viewed the predicament at Starecross, and Segundus’ illness.

In the hours before midnight it seemed little was amiss, and Childermass drifted in and out of sleep in the chair, waking to the sounds of Segundus’ nightmares. Segundus did not wake himself, nor did he ever try to climb from the bed, but he whimpered and shifted back and forth, his hands clutching the blankets or the fabric of his nightgown in fear. At these times Childermass felt the presence of something rise by the window, and then ebb with the tide of the dream, always disappearing whenever Childermass took Segundus’ anxious hands in his own or kissed his too-warm forehead. 

After midnight the fever in Segundus became worse, and so did the forces outside, and Childermass dared not sleep. He considered that this malevolent-seeming thing might be a projection- that, like he had first thought, this might be an accidental act of corrupted magic from Segundus- but the more he observed the less this seemed so. Segundus did not feel like he was doing any magic, even when his nightmares were the worst, when he cried out and arched his back and moved in ways that uncomfortably seemed to toe the line between torture and ecstasy. In these climactic moments something rattled the glass in the windowpane, as if threatening to break it, and Childermass wondered if his own mind was slipping in the fluttering half-light from the candle. He did not feel well, did not feel like himself, felt like he had caught Segundus’ fever and it was smearing his vision and turning his brain to muck. He spent the hours before dawn casting warding spells from memory, flimsy things that he had never been adept with, but anything was better than nothing, right? It was hard to tell if what happened around him was of the waking world or a dream.

Eventually the sun rose, and the window was not broken. Segundus’ fever, on the other hand, did precisely this, and he fell into a deeper sleep that lasted all throughout the morning, one without the nightmares. 

Childermass was not given the same luxury. As soon as the rest of the house rose they came to check on Segundus, and Tom Levy ensured he was set to explain his comments from the evening previous (such a distant time ago now!). Childermass, unwilling to leave Segundus alone entirely, moved them into the headmaster’s study, where he was (at least) given some tea and a seat to begin his tale.

He told all of the magicians of Starecross about what Vinculus had said, and what he had been shown in the garden. He told them of Segundus’ night fever, of the malevolent force felt at the window, and of Segundus’ strange comments- comments that suggested he feared someone, though he could not remember who. The faces of the men in the room darkened as he delivered his tale, and he knew they felt the same as he did- what men were they, what _magicians,_ to not have seen such a trespass on their home for so long?

Before breakfast was served the matter was out of Childermass’ hands. Tom Levy and Mr. Hadley-Bright both went into the garden to find what there was to be found, while Mr. Honeyfoot and Mr. Purfois went down to Starecross’ diminutive library (and the libraries of their memories) to search for anything of relevance regarding curses and curse-breaking and other unwholesome magicks. The students were told about what the faculty had learned in lesser detail and were instructed to keep out of the grounds for their safety, which generated quite a lot of talk, but it seemed that the dangers of black magic superseded the desire to play about outside on a day without lessons- proof that they had been taught well. Some of the older ones even joined the others in the library to research, where they were welcomed- something that, Childermass thought with exhausted giddiness, Norrell would have been appalled to see.

“But do take care, Mr. Childermass,” Honeyfoot told him earnestly as the other men left the study on their missions. “You did a hero’s work last night, I’m sure. If you hadn’t been there, who knows what would’ve…”

Honeyfoot blinked a couple of times, as if to clear his eyes of a surprising touch of emotion, and then gave Childermass one more “Take care,” before making his own leave.

Childermass bowed to Honeyfoot’s back, and he supposed it was silly to be surprised. Honeyfoot had known Segundus longer- had been a dear friend to him for many years when Childermass had been his enemy. Segundus had told him once (when Childermass had brought up this unfortunate fact) that Honeyfoot was rather like a father to him- his own sire having passed away when he was a boy. Childermass was sure the feeling was returned in reverse. Yes, it would do well to remember that he was not the only one here who loved Segundus, who would be lost if he were to...no, that wouldn’t happen. Childermass would make sure.

Feeling drunk on his own tiredness, Childermass plodded back into Segundus’ room. He was still sleeping peacefully and deeply, wrapped so tightly in his blankets only his bruised eyes could be seen above them. Precious thing- Childermass resolved himself to protecting him, even if he had to wear his own body thin to do it. Whatever this ‘problem’- this ‘curse’, this ‘enchantment’- was, it had taken hold of Segundus for far too long now. Any further trespass was unforgivable.

Thus fortified by his own determination, Childermass left Segundus in the care of one of the maids and went downstairs to breakfast properly. The sun outside was shining weakly but clearly, and Childermass knew instinctively that Segundus would not be in danger during the day- there was evidence to prove it too, for every time he had taken ill it had been after a night spent alone. 

Well, then. It was time to get to work.


	8. the blood is life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a long one- in fact, originally this and the previous chapter were together! But at last we get to the reveal...(if you haven’t already figured it out from the title!)

After Childermass had eaten (a rash of bacon, more tea, a large hunk of cheese) he went outdoors in search of Vinculus. The air smelled fresher than it had the evening previous, and the light cleared his head despite the restless night behind him. This was good, he needed his wits about him- and he had no excuse, having survived worse before.

On a hunch he went to the stables, giving Brewer an absent-minded pat on the nose as he passed by, heading for the last stall on the left- a stall which was never occupied by a horse, as there was space aplenty for guest riders closer to the entrance. It was a preferred haunt for another kind of animal, though.

Vinculus was sleeping on the hay, his worn hat lying across his face. Segundus had bought him new clothes, of course, and he had a room to stay in, but everyone had their preferences. It seemed that Vinculus, even with his newfound importance and prestige in post-Restoration England, preferred to be a vagabond. 

“Hey,” Childermass said, and he let himself into the stall, tossing a package of cheese and cured meat onto Vinculus’ stomach to wake him. Vinculus woke (if he had really been sleeping- Childermass hadn’t heard his distinctive snores) and put the hat back on his head, curling around the package appreciatively.

“I want you to tell me about the voice you heard,” Childermass said bluntly, leaning back against the stall door.

“Now now,” Vinculus chided him, picking out a piece of cheese to eat. “Give a man a minute. This is a fine breakfast.”

Childermass gave him perhaps half of that before pushing forward:

“Come on. What did it say to you?”

“I do not remember exactly what it said,” Vinculus told him once he had swallowed. “And that is unusual, don’t you think? I am very good at remembering what people tell me.”

“Go on.” Childermass cursed silently to himself. There couldn't be much progress made if Vinculus’ memories had been muddled the same way Segundus’ had.

“It wanted my help,” Vinculus continued. “My _obedience._ With what I don’t remember- but it brushed me the wrong way, I know that. I think it supposed I was some kind of lunatic- I am not a lunatic.”

“That’s right. You said the voice came from the moon?”

Childermass had no explanation ready for that aspect of the enchantment (if this was an enchantment). The moon was a powerful force to use in magic, but usually for _dis_ enchantment- though its force had a special pull for madmen.

“Well, that’s what I thought,” Vinculus said petulantly. “But I am not a magician.”

Childermass thought about this for a while, allowing Vinculus to continue his breakfast. 

“Can you tell me anything else about it?” he asked after he reached no conclusions. “Anything else at all?”

Vinculus hummed.

“I think it was a man’s voice,” he said. “Far too demanding to be a woman. And I recall quite distinctly thinking that it had an accent- a _French_ accent.”

Vinculus laughed to himself at the absurdity of the image, but something in his words snagged on a hook in Childermass’ memory. Hadn’t he run into trouble with a Frenchman recently? He had a memory that was awash with dim candlelight and the scent of spilt beer- but it was a hazy thing, more like the memory of a dream, made of cobwebs and lacking crucial pieces. For an instant he saw a white face flicker behind his eyes, and then it was gone.

Well, then. It seemed he had been ‘enchanted’, too.

“Let me know if you hear it again,” Childermass said to Vinculus. “Or if anything else...unusual happens.”

Vinculus didn’t answer, absorbed with his meal, and Childermass left him. 

At least now he could put some kind of figure behind this mischief. _‘Someone’_ was doing this to Starecross, to Segundus- a man, a man who Childermass was sure he had met, even if he couldn’t remember his face entirely. What was he, then- a magician? He must be. This was not fairy magic, it was both too blunt and too ineffectual. Starecross was blighted but it was still itself, its grounds did not border on other worlds. Why, then, would a magician be interested in cursing a school for magic, for putting a plague upon the headmaster? And this was not typical English magic, neither of the Strangeite nor Norrellite variety. There was still too much he didn’t know.

Disquieted in his own thoughts, Childermass did not realize where he was going until he was halfway up the stairs, and then with a sigh he figured he might as well. Inside the headmaster’s apartments Charles was taking a turn at watching Segundus, who was still sleeping very deeply, not having stirred in the slightest with the steady rising of the sun.

“I will watch him very closely this time,” Charles said nervously to Childermass. Clearly he still felt guilty about the sleepwalking incident from the previous evening. Childermass shrugged.

“That wasn’t your fault,” he said honestly.

“Are we really...cursed?” Charles asked, the last word spoken in a hush, as if he did not know if it was safe to say. Childermass couldn’t help but chuckle a little at that.

“We’ll see,” he said, and then he took his leave. Segundus looked perfectly peaceful lying there. There was no reason to disturb him.

Childermass ought to have gone to the library to assist the other magicians in their search for ‘something’, but he didn’t do that immediately. Instead he went down through the servants’ quarters, into Starecross’ winding basement where all the typical (and some atypical) things were stored. He dug around in the dust until he found what he was looking for- boxes of holiday decorations, kept aside until the season came around again. From these he took a string of sleighbells and cut away two of their number, for these bells were made of silver, and hence were designed perfectly for the kind of magic he wished to do.

The spell itself was simple, and Childermass performed it in his own room, having easily snuck his stolen materials up the stairs. It involved placing the two bells in a spot of sunshine and mimicking the act of tying a bow in the air between them. As Childermass did this, a string of red light appeared between his fingers, and once the bow was tied this string flashed for an instant before disappearing. In the wake of the spell the air smelled of rain and icing sugar. Childermass picked up one of the silver bells and rang it- and, as expected, when he did so the other bell rang as well, despite sitting unmoved upon the windowsill.

To finish off his plan he tied one of the bells to a string (regrettably having no jewellery chain on hand) so it could be easily kept close, and then with this mission complete, he put both bells in his pocket and went to the library to help the other magicians.

The rest of the day passed in this way: Childermass told the congregation of what he had learned from Vinculus, and of his recollections, and then they resumed their research. Little was found in the library, for though some historical publications (books _about_ magic) made reference to curses that blighted crops or livestock, and all historical publications discussed enchantments that made people do things they wouldn’t usually (most often in the context of fairies) there were no accounts that matched the situation at Starecross very well. Purfois spent his time setting up a spell to purify the disrupted gardens, but it was only a general charm, based on forms used for reversing damage done to plant and wildlife from ordinary causes (such as frost or blight). Perhaps it would work, perhaps it wouldn’t- it did not address the source of the problem, for that source was not yet known.

While they were at it, Childermass also refreshed his knowledge of wards and other protective spells, in preparation to use on Segundus’ windows that night- he had a feeling that whatever (or whoever) had come by would not be so kind as to leave him alone after being foiled only once.

Levy and Hadley-Bright returned in the evening with a collection of specimens from the grounds. They had found the strange weeds and the corpses of some of the insects Childermass had mentioned- they had even found the pit with its black mud, though it had been empty of rats in any state. They said they had gone across the entirety of Starecross’ grounds, and found evidence of this corruption in lesser forms throughout it- and even some down in Starecross Village, where it had concentrated most highly in the graveyard and some of the back paths that led from it. 

“We warned the minister,” said Levy, shooting Childermass a look before he could open his mouth to speak. “He’s sending people door to door to warn the town. I don’t think he blamed us, but we have yet to see about the other villagers.”

Childermass laughed harshly at that, and more questions were asked, but Childermass barely attended to them. The sun had not yet set, but still he felt exhausted, and his eyes blurred from spending too much time looking at pages. 

“Let us retire for now,” Honeyfoot offered, and the others all agreed. “Tomorrow we can examine those specimens further. I wonder if Mr. Segundus has woken yet?”

As it turned out, he hadn’t- though he did wake in time for a late supper, and was strong enough to dress himself and come down for it. Childermass was entirely shocked when he saw him on the stairs- for a moment he was almost unrecognizable. Pale and sickly though his complexion was, he really did look younger, so much so it was startling. What kind of curse or sickness took away fifteen years?

(And by God, had Segundus ever looked so rawly _beautiful?)_

“How are you?” Childermass asked dumbly. “You...you slept the day away.”

“I know,” Segundus said, smiling a little wryly. “And now I feel I do not want to sleep at all.”

He gave Childermass’ hand a squeeze in passing, and his touch was upsettingly cold, but there was too much in the way of company for Childermass to pursue the matter further. At dinner the faculty informed him of what they had discovered in varying detail, voices piling over one another, and Segundus listened but made little input. Childermass wondered if the others saw the difference in him- he had a feeling Honeyfoot did, for his face had grown pale and his eyes wide at the sight of Segundus’ stepping through the door. Once more, though a very rich meal was served, the headmaster did not eat much, spending more time picking at his plate than chewing. He did, however, drink more than his typical share of the red wine which had been served with the meal, and yet did not appear to become intoxicated in the slightest. 

Childermass watched him for the whole meal, but Segundus did not return his gaze. Childermass supposed the best way to describe his expression was ‘sullen’, which was unusual, for ‘sullen’ was not really an aspect of Segundus’ character. Perhaps he was mistaking it for discomfort or exhaustion.

After dinner, the rest of the magicians offered to continue their discussion in the parlour, but Segundus refused.

“I think I will return to bed,” he said quietly. “I suppose it’s better not to overexert myself yet.”

“I will come with you,” Childermass said, which (finally) got Segundus to turn and look at him again. “I will cast some wards to keep the night out.”

“Oh, but Mr. Childermass,” Honeyfoot protested. “You have already done enough- one of us should take over tonight, you deserve to rest.”

“It’s alright,” he said. “I have something to discuss with the headmaster anyway. If, that is, it is not disagreeable to you, sir?”

This second remark he directed at Segundus, who shook his head, and smiled rather faintly. In the end these seemed excuses enough, and they parted ways with the rest of the house around nine o’clock, allowed to return to the solitude of Segundus’ chambers just as the sun began to set outside.

Childermass followed Segundus’ back up the stairs, and then they passed through the study without so much as a word, Segundus leaving the bedroom door open behind him. This was a little strange, but Childermass didn’t pay it much mind, concentrating once he was inside on setting protective wards- these were spells that required no apparatus, only focus and a few whispered words, and the air in the room shifted solidly once they were in place. Childermass looked out the window into the walking paths- there was nothing unusual there that he could see. He closed the curtains.

When he turned around he was quite surprised to find that Segundus was _already undressed,_ in the process of folding his clothes away into the dresser. Having been focused on the act of spell-casting, Childermass hadn’t heard the rustle of fabric on fabric, the sounds of buttons being undone and stockings pulled down over slender white legs.

(Segundus had not yet put his nightgown on.) 

Suddenly weak, Childermass sat down on the bed, unable to gather his thoughts around the sight of so much bare skin. He could feel his heart starting to beat rather quickly. Oh, what was he, some blushing maiden? This was ridiculous, he was more than accustomed to nudity, the nudity of this particular man most of all, and yet-

The balance of the bed shifted as Segundus joined him on it, crawling over the blanket on all fours until he was flush with Childermass’ still-clothed figure, curling around his body. Childermass raised an eyebrow, but found he could say nothing, his tongue nailed to the roof of his mouth by those dark, glittering eyes.

“I fear I have been cold lately,” Segundus said, and he loosened Childermass’ cravat, and Childermass figured he was dizzy because all of the blood in his body was flowing in a direction decidedly away from his head.

“You haven’t been cold,” he managed as Segundus began to lay kisses upon his cheek and jaw, his lips chilled upon Childermass’ too-warm skin. “You’ve been ill.”

Segundus hummed, and then he kissed Childermass on the mouth, a gesture which Childermass returned properly, burying his fingers in those too-black curls and deepening it, lips and tongues moving together until they were both breathless. Segundus- in a move bolder than he usually was- began to undo the buttons on Childermass’ waistcoat, tugging at the fabric of his jacket until the message was properly delivered and they broke apart so Childermass could expedite the process. He only managed to rid himself of the coverings on his chest, though, before Segundus grabbed him again and pushed him back onto the pillows, crushing their lips together. Where had that strength come from? Hadn’t Segundus been too weak to sit up just yesterday-?

Segundus pulled away and bit down suddenly and sharply on Childermass’ neck, a gesture which made Childermass cry out, but he didn’t linger there. He kissed and licked his way down Childermass’ chest, his tongue inexplicably as cold as his lips, and the little noises he made were full of such wild desire Childermass was overwhelmed. He felt like he was on the back of a bucking stallion, every motion hard and intense and completely out of his control, and this was not what it was like to make love with Segundus normally, he could be mischievous but never this rough good _God-_

Segundus flicked open the fly on Childermass’ trousers and took another part of his anatomy into his mouth, and subsequently there fled anything resembling rational thought from his head.

He could not even say how long it took- but he suspected it wasn’t long. He found himself tugging on Segundus’ hair and Segundus was _moaning,_ the sound reverberating in his bones. He had taken it all the way down his throat and with such _vigour,_ the world was melting and if this kept up Childermass was going to catch fire, he would burn to ashes and there would be nothing left-!

When the orgasm had destroyed him Segundus pulled away and licked his lips, having swallowed it all. His eyes looked black in the lamplight, unreadable, and he lay himself languidly across Childermass’ body- he was still cold to the touch, he hadn’t even broken a sweat, while Childermass was panting like an animal and soaked with it. The fabric of his trousers clung to his legs, still covering them.

“Aye, love,” he said when he had enough air in his lungs to do so. “I don’t know where that came from, but I’m not complaining.”

Segundus laughed quietly and licked his neck, tongue smoothing over the sting where his teeth had been earlier. Childermass let him do this and then tried to sit up.

“Let me see if I can return the favour,” he said, as charming as he could muster, but Segundus put a hand on his chest to hold him there.

“Don’t,” he murmured in a chilled little voice. “I...not now. Just stay here.”

It was then that Childermass noticed that Segundus’ own manhood had not risen in the slightest where it pressed against Childermass’ thigh. Segundus said nothing of it, wrapping around him in a tight embrace, face buried against his throat so Childermass could not see his expression. Childermass took several deep breaths in the quiet that followed, forcing himself to relax, tracing circles on Segundus’ back in slow, soothing motions.

“Are you alright?” he asked when his sweat had cooled. Segundus did not answer immediately, and so for a moment Childermass thought he had fallen asleep, before he replied:

“I do not feel like myself, and it...it is frightening.”

Childermass hushed him and kissed the top of his head, wondering if Segundus could have possibly spoken in a sadder sounding voice.

“Don’t worry,” he told him firmly. “We’re going to fix this. Whatever’s causing this, we’ll stop it, you understand?”

Segundus did not say anything, but he did sigh, and Childermass sat up to reach for his discarded jacket, desperate to convince him. From within the front pocket he pulled the pair of twin bells, and he gave the one on the string to Segundus, who cradled it in an open palm. His eyes looked rimmed with pink as well as black, wet from the strain of holding something back, and Childermass saw his throat move as he swallowed.

“Listen,” Childermass said, and he rang his bell, watching Segundus’ eyes widen as the one in his palm let out a little chime, motionless within his grasp. “It works both ways. I want you to keep this on you at all times- I will do the same with mine. If you start to feel that anything is amiss, no matter how small, ring it, and I will come for you.”

“My personal serving bell,” Segundus said with a watery laugh, and Childermass kissed his forehead.

“Precisely,” he said, and he helped Segundus tie the string around his neck so the bell could rest against his chest, where it would lie under his clothes when he was wearing them and safe from wandering eyes. As he did this he noticed for the first time that some of the skin around Segundus’ jugular was bruised- little shadows stood out against the white of it and the blue of his veins, looking too much like lovemarks, which was what they couldn’t be because Childermass _did not remember putting them there._

“What’s this?” Childermass asked, touching the delicate skin with one finger, and as he did so Segundus recoiled, jerking back as though the touch had been a branding-iron. He was suddenly breathing heavily, eyes wide with fear, and Childermass released him completely, holding up his hands to show they were empty.

“Woah,” Childermass found himself saying, like Segundus was a spooked horse. Absurd. Segundus began shaking, but he seemed to come back to himself, recognizing Childermass once more.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, and Childermass shook his head.

“Don’t. It's alright. What happened? ...do you remember?”

“No,” Segundus said, his lips forming a thin and miserable frown. “I don’t know why it frightened me. It- it was like you struck me, or, or your touch was a lightning bolt…”

Segundus rubbed at the offending skin with one hand, and slowly Childermass was allowed to reach out again, stroking his back this time to comfort him. Neither said anything more for a little while- Childermass watched Segundus, and Segundus watched the window with glassy eyes. 

“Thank you for the bell,” Segundus said after a while. He tugged on the string about his neck, and the two little bells rang. 

“I hope you won’t need it- not for anything serious.” Childermass said this honestly. Segundus smiled at him, and then stood to find his nightgown, pulling it on over his head.

“If you’re staying tonight, you’d best get comfortable,” he told Childermass with a bit of his regular humour. Childermass obliged, taking off his sweat-damp trousers and putting back on his undershirt which (he noticed with some amusement) was missing a button from Segundus’ earlier...passion. He didn’t mention this though. No need to go about embarrassing the man.

“I’d best try to stay up, though,” was what he did say. “To make sure you’re safe.”

“I’ll feel very safe if you hold me,” Segundus said, flushing weakly- and yes, _there_ was an expression that was very like Segundus, and it was so welcome Childermass hadn’t the heart to deny him.

Once they were both under the covers and Childermass’ chest was reinstated in its regular role of ‘pillow’, Segundus fell asleep very quickly, his last words a murmured goodnight and a request to leave the lamp burning. Childermass listened to him breathe for many hours as the night turned deep, determined not to take anything for granted.

The force at the window came and went sometime near the witching hour- the only time when Segundus had a bad dream, his brow furrowing and his body shifting uncomfortably against Childermass. It did not seem to rattle the window with quite as much ferocity as it had the night previous, and once Segundus settled in again it did not return.

 _That’s right, brute,_ Childermass thought spitefully. _He’s mine._

Sometime shortly after dawn Childermass woke and realized he had fallen asleep, but a quick and panicked squeeze confirmed that Segundus was still where he was supposed to be- wrapped up safe in Childermass’ arms. Childermass watched him for a long moment, admiring how the pale light coming in the window touched his face. The circumstances leading up to this were all terrible- but the silver lining, it seemed, was that Childermass at last had an excuse to wake up in bed beside him.

Before the time stretched on too long Childermass reluctantly withdrew himself from the warm bed, redressing in his wrinkled clothes that had spent the night on the floor- making sure to put his silver bell in a secure jacket pocket. He watched the sleeping Segundus a while longer from the armchair, and at the sound of approaching footsteps in the corridor beyond rose to attend them.

That day, Segundus woke in time for breakfast, likely due to the better night previous. As he ate- managing more than he had for dinner before- Childermass saw that a touch of colour had returned to his cheeks- his hair was still oddly dark, his features had not been given back their years, but still he looked a little more like himself. 

The others no doubt saw this improvement too, and it pushed the whole house into a passion for magic and mystery-solving. Classes were still on hold (something which Segundus expressed regret over) but the students were eager to bring Segundus well wishes, and to try their own hand at ideas for curse-breaking (which were encouraged if not actually applied). Purfois attempted his spell over the garden, which did seem to clear up the weeds, though no one could say if the other pests were affected or not, as they did not seem to appear during the day. And what a bright day it was! The sun shone so brilliantly it made everyone squint and despite the chill in the air many attitudes began leaning towards hope for a warming spring.

In one of the classrooms the faculty did a few experiments on the beetle corpses from the night previous- all of which had decayed at an unusually high rate overnight in their glass jars. Many spells of revelation were cast upon them (to no avail- there were no links upon the beasts that led to paths of human magic, or even fairy magic) and then dissolution, though whether the reduction of the bodies to ash had any effect on those not held as specimens, they couldn’t say. 

Segundus was sent about from place to place to see their progress until he was quite exhausted (the bright sun giving him a headache), and then he was confined to the library, where a number of magical tests were done on him as well, in between fortifying cups of strong tea. This, too, had few results. There were no signs that Segundus was enchanted through typical means- and no attempts to restore memory or lift fog from the mind succeeded.

In the end, though everyone had started the day with high hopes and strong wills, come dinnertime they were all thoroughly stumped and exhausted. 

“We can put it to rest for now,” Segundus told them. “You have all done far more for me than I could ever ask.”

This prompted much in the way of protests and assurances, but in the end they all went to a late supper, and then retired for the night without any further work, to refresh their minds for the coming day.

But not all was fruitless- with only minor convincing (and a censored explanation of events the night previous) Childermass was able to ensure his place in Segundus’ bedroom again that night. Hannah helpfully set up a cot in the corner of the room (which would not be used) and Childermass was allowed to bring some of his things in to tuck beneath it, lest he need them during the night. He demonstrated to the other faculty (and to some of the older students, who had all day taken the situation very seriously) the protection spells that he set up around Segundus’ room, and when all were satisfied they were left alone again, the curtains closed and Segundus’ arms open, a sweet smile on his face.

That night, though Segundus shifted and sighed with nightmares, there was no presence felt at the window. Childermass slept through many of the peaceful hours, waking at his usual time and feeling better rested than he had in weeks (if not years- it was a marvel what the presence of a loving body could do for the mind).

The next few days passed in much the same rhythm- every morning there were new ideas, new paths to explore, and by every evening the researchers retired frustrated. The corruption in the garden seemed to fade over this time (though it did not vanish completely, despite their best efforts), but that in Starecross Village did not. In particular, the unnatural weeds that were flourishing about the graveyard only grew greater in presence despite their best efforts, for reasons neither magic nor faith (for the minister made sure his opinion was heard) could explain.

Segundus’ condition improved, but only gradually. Whatever strength had returned to him after his previous ‘bouts’ took its time. Even on the second morning after his sleepwalking he could only walk for short distances unaided. By the third he was at least participating in the discussions surrounding the mystery, though he always retired early. Every night he had bad dreams. The only comfort was that his smile was bright (at least when around company) and perfectly familiar- his eyes retained their familiar expressiveness, and he did not slip into strange or tempestuous moods.

As Segundus’ health changed slowly, the weather did the opposite- it worsened very quickly. The warm sunshine did not stay long, replaced by gray clouds that filtered the light and made it dim. On the second day these clouds started to leak, letting out a steady, cold drizzle that made the air smell of stone- a drizzle that crept through even the thickest of greatcoats and soaked down to the skin. A wind picked up on the third day, one that tugged at people’s clothes when they walked outside, and chose to carry voices far or whip them away to nowhere as it pleased. Perhaps voices not belonging to any seen speaker could sometimes be heard- but then, it was very possible that was a natural illusion, wasn’t it? Vinculus hid away on these days, and said nothing more about the voice in the moon, the voice of the unseen enchanter who was not found in any pub or inn for miles around (though Childermass, with the aid of some of the brave young men in Starecross’ company, had searched for him).

Segundus spoke only of good spirits and ‘feeling better’, though his blackened eyelids and too-slim figure betrayed him, and after sundown he was restless. Childermass insisted to the faculty that he stay by his side a few more nights, and while there were perhaps some odd looks no one ultimately denied them. 

On the fourth day the weather shapeshifted into a thunderstorm. The clouds turned the sky black and rain fell in sheets, so thick it obscured all the windows of the house, and wherever there were secret drafts in the walls (as was inevitable with a house as old and strange as this one) a wind as cold as winter crept through and caressed the skin through slips in people’s clothing.

“Are you sure this doesn’t belong to one of the students?” Childermass asked Purfois, who stood with him by the dining room window where the faculty had taken their lunch. Segundus was with them, but he looked miserable, holding some one-sided discussion with Honeyfoot and staring into space with glassy eyes.

“Even they would have trouble coming up with something like this,” Purfois said spitefully, cheeks clearly warmed by an early glass of sherry. “I assure you, this is entirely natural...nature can be quite mean.”

“I am going to my study,” Segundus said suddenly, his airy voice surprisingly sharp on the air. “I...I have a headache.”

“Do you need any help?” asked Childermass and Honeyfoot at more or less the same time, and Segundus looked at neither of them, standing on his own power and waving a hand as he walked to the door, as if warding off annoying guests made of cobwebs.

“I’ll be fine,” he said, seemingly to no one in particular, and then he was gone.

Childermass grit his teeth and struggled for a moment with a very strong urge to follow him, for he didn’t like to think of Segundus alone, even when he was safe during the day- but he didn’t have time to grapple with this for long, for almost as soon as Segundus vanished Charles took his place, appearing like a spectre, hair and clothes plastered to his body from the rain.

“Come, someone,” he gasped. “The horses!”

Childermass followed him (for what else was there to do?), along with Tom Levy, and he only had an instant to brace himself at the front door before he pushed through it, out into the tempest. The rain was so heavy he felt for a moment like he was drowning- the earth under his feet had turned to slippery mud, and he barely caught himself, squinting to search for landmarks in the obstructed landscape.

He caught Charles’ back, and followed it, and before long his senses adjusted enough to the onslaught to pick out the stables up ahead- and catch ear of the problem. Even over the thunder (which seemed to boom constantly in the sky) and the sounds of the rain pouring over the grounds in buckets, he could hear the horses screaming.

For undeniably, they were screaming. _That_ was not the typical sound that such animals made. Childermass did not think he had ever heard anything quite like it.

Once inside the stables the rain was off their heads, and the assault of the senses now came from the sight before them. There were four beasts being kept at Starecross then (Brewer among them) and all were in a vicious state of panic, bucking in their stalls and shrieking, throwing their heads uncaringly against the wooden supports that held up the roof. Purfois’ gray steed rolled its eyes at Childermass, thick foam dripping from between its bared teeth, and the building reeked of horseshit and terror. Childermass looked about for smoke, or the fire that would cause it, but there was nothing- nor was there any threatening presence, like a hungry wolf or a strange man.

Still, the creatures writhed in their compartments, kicking at the walls with strength enough to break bone, attempting at times to run and only succeeding in slamming their bodies into the wood. Childermass had never seen anything like it before- and he had lived a life full of many strange and horrible things.

 _‘Tis said they ate each other,’_ he thought wildly. Was this the sight Shakespeare had envisioned when writing his black play?

“Open the stalls,” Levy said from behind them, his voice out of breath and hard to hear over the raucous made by the animals. “They’ll kill themselves if they're left here.”

Childermass agreed reluctantly- he was never in a mood for being trampled- and they opened the doors one by one, flattening their bodies against the wood paneling as soon as the animal was free. Thankfully, the creatures seemed to take little interest in them, even when they were usually loyal companions- all they did was take off into the storm at a gallop, their hooves louder on the stone than the thunder outside. There was no saying where they would go in this weather- the stable was near the front of the house, so there was a good chance they’d follow the road, either into Starecross Village or out into the lonely, winding paths that connected this place to the rest of England. Hopefully they wouldn’t slip and break anything, hopefully they wouldn’t be shot. Hopefully they would be found again later- but four lost horses were better than four dead and mangled ones still inside their stalls.

The three men stood inside the empty stables together in silence after the last horse was freed, out of breath and ears ringing from the animals’ wild screams. The rain was still pouring outside, and in the distance flickers of sheet lightning could be seen changing the colour of the sky.

Childermass was going to propose they examine the stables to see if there was anything that might have caused the disturbance- but as he opened his mouth another sound caught his ear. A faint, shimmering chime, a gentle sound amidst all the roaring nature. Where was it coming from? Childermass looked around him, and then on instinct opened his jacket, from where the sound rang clear.

The bell.

The jolt of fear that struck him then was more intense than any lightning. Without a word to the others he ran from the stables, back across the rain-slick yard, his heart the loudest thing in his ears.

By the time he reached the front door, however, the bell had fallen silent.

“Is everything alright out there?” Hannah asked, for she was standing inside with a pack of blankets in hand, but Childermass ignored her too, bolting through the foyer and main hall, hand on the banister before he could draw a second breath, up the stairs before his thoughts could catch up to his heartbeat.

Segundus’ door was closed, and when Childermass took the handle he discovered it was also locked. He was sure he swore something then, but he didn’t hear the words. Every dwindling second seemed like too many gone, especially after the eerie sight in the stables- how could anyone have thought this storm was _natural,_ how could he have let Segundus go off on his own-

Childermass braced his shoulder to the door and slammed against it, feeling the wood strain but not break. Again. He didn’t even feel the pain of impact over the twisting in his stomach. Again- nothing. The door was reinforced with metal, he knew that, what was he doing? Childermass bent down beside the keyhole and whispered into it a spell, a series of words that sought out the teeth inside and bent them this way and that, in just the way a lockpick used a piece of metal. A very old spell. A spell Childermass had known before meeting Norrell.

The door unlocked. Childermass threw it open.

Inside, the first thing he saw was that Segundus’ study window was ajar- rain soaked his books and letters, turning the wood dark, and the whole room smelled of electricity and ice. The chair at his desk had been turned over, tossed against the wall.

The next sight Childermass lay eyes upon was Segundus himself- and for a moment it was hard for those eyes to understand what they were seeing. Segundus was lying on the floor surrounded by shards of something glittering, his eyes were closed, was he sleeping? And he looked so pale, and his clothes were torn, and, and…

...and he was covered in blood.

Childermass kneeled down beside him, suddenly feeling as though he was in a trance, cold from his heart to the very ends of his fingers. Distantly, he realized that the shimmering pools he saw on the floor were in fact shards of a broken mirror, the mirror he had bought for Segundus in London. He could not see Segundus breathing.

His lips were smeared with the stuff, his cheeks splattered, and he looked like his throat had been slit, for it was there that the blood pooled, staining his chest in the imitation of a spring robin. Childermass touched his cheek and found it cold as death- cold because he _was_ dead, _no,_ because this was _his_ blood, because someone had come in here and _taken him away,_ because it had all happened too quickly…

Segundus stirred under his touch, letting out a very delicate little moan, and Childermass felt his own heart start beating again. 

“Come on,” he hissed to himself as much as Segundus, his silenced mind suddenly racing again, nauseous with the flip from panic to despair and back to panic again. He needed help- but it was too late to call for help. What did he know? Would Restoration and Rectification fix this? Segundus was better at that one, he was better at fixing things- _damnit,_ wasn’t there a spell to stop bleeding, why couldn’t he even remember its name-?

Childermass’ fingers fumbled with the collar of Segundus’ torn shirt, trying to expose the wound to better see what he was dealing with- and Segundus, his eyes flicking back and forth behind their lids, rolled his head back to further expose his throat- like he was _offering_ it- but what Childermass saw there he didn’t understand.

Segundus’ white skin was slick with blood, but the flesh there was whole- there was no tear, no knife-split from which his life spilled. Where was it all coming from? How had this happened? Why couldn’t Childermass remember any decent spell? _Something is terribly wrong,_ Segundus had said it himself, and now Childermass couldn’t even help him-

-then he saw it.

Segundus _did_ have a wound. 

Childermass hadn’t seen it because he had been looking for something greater- something proportionate to the blood spilled. His grasping fingers had slipped over the source, but he saw it now, an imperfection in Segundus’ otherwise unbroken skin. Such a seemingly innocent sight, yes, for how could such a tiny thing cause so much trouble- and yet another bell was ringing, one from deep within Childermass’ memory, calling forth old stories from the street and muddled pages from Norrell’s blackest books, read by candlelight in secret on the darkest of nights. Something he could never have guessed at, something he had not even entirely believed was real…

On Segundus’ jugular, there was a pair of _twin puncture marks,_ as thin as a needle’s point and as evenly spaced as a snakebite.

Childermass sat back, feeling numb, and around him suddenly there was commotion- he had been followed inside, of course, and there were others here as well, drawn by the panic as moths to a flame. People were shouting, a woman screamed, and Segundus’ brow furrowed where he lay on the floor, proof of life as well as discomfort. Childermass turned away, searching the crowd with all its faces and voices until he came to one.

Honeyfoot was standing back against the rain-wrecked desk, one hand over his mouth. His face had turned gray and his eyes were wide- dizzily, Childermass supposed he must look the same. He approached, holding up his hands before remembering that they were red with Segundus’ blood, and then he put them behind his back.

“Mr. Honeyfoot, sir,” he said raggedly, hardly able to hear his own words. “You have been a magician for quite some time. You have studied much, haven’t you?”

Honeyfoot did not reply, but he did look over, and now Childermass saw that he was trembling.

“Have you heard...I mean, what do you know…”

Childermass grit his teeth and gathered himself, summoning strength from the very dregs of his reserve to say the word he could barely conceive of, the word hanging in the fog before his mind.

“How much do you know about _vampires?”_


	9. i will not let you go into the unknown alone

The next half hour passed in a strange blur of too many voices and too many colours. Segundus, though he did not entirely wake, was taken to bed and washed, where it was discovered that he had sustained wounds in other places as well- shallow cuts along his back and left arm, no doubt inflicted by the shards of the broken mirror. A broken mirror was seven years bad luck- but they already had enough bad luck.

The weather was still too black for anyone to make it to Starecross Village for the doctor on foot. They had to make due with the mixed medical knowledge of the people living at the school already- which was at least enough to clean and bandage the cuts, which perhaps did not bleed as profusely as they should have, which perhaps showed signs of healing faster than was usual. The puncture wounds on Segundus’ throat were entirely gone within the hour, sealed and replaced with faint, shadowy bruises, and what this meant Childermass did not want to imagine.

It was hard to watch Segundus like this- so limp and feeble, being moved around like a doll, too much of his skin bared to the eyes of other men (even if they were trying to help, and affording him all the dignity they could). Childermass had a selfish urge to kick them all out- _leave him alone, let him be-_ but he knew that was ridiculous. They weren’t the trespassers. Childermass had failed to keep out the real threat, and wasn’t that truly what was bothering him?

When all was done it seemed like Segundus was going to wake properly for a moment- his eyes opened and he looked around, and Childermass instantly was at his side, taking up as much space in those bruised black eyes as he could. But Segundus did not seem happy to see him- his expression was disinterested, indifferent. His fingers curled at his throat like claws, tugging at the fabric of the high collar, and he looked like he wanted to say something- his chest rose, shuddering with new breath, and his lips parted, revealing behind their white seal a line of red saliva, bloodstained teeth. Had he bit his cheek when he hit the floor? Or- there was another possibility, the thought of which made Childermass sick to his stomach-

Segundus did not say whatever he had wanted to say. He let out all the air in a toneless, disappointed sigh, and his head fell limp back onto the pillow, his eyes sliding closed. Childermass felt like a light had been turned off somewhere, and suddenly he was in the dark, without anything to point out the proper path.

“Mr. Childermass,” said a voice. Childermass turned and discovered it was Honeyfoot, who looked just as wide and gray as he had when Segundus had been discovered. He was wringing his hat in his hands. Childermass gestured roughly to the armchair beside the bed (upon which Childermass sat then, unwilling to move to a place where the minute pressure of Segundus’ body against his would not be felt) unable to force his own throat to any words, and Honeyfoot accepted, making his way over to sit shakily on the cushion. Childermass saw he was looking at Segundus, and turned to do the same- that white face looked drawn in the dark gray light coming through the window, where the storm still stirred outside. At least it was easy to see that he was breathing.

They both watched Segundus in silence for what felt like a long while, ignoring the occasional bustle from out in the study or the corridor beyond it, as the servants finished fixing up the room and exchanged words. Very distantly, Childermass realized he was still wet from his excursion to the stables- but that felt like yesterday, at least. Childermass barely felt the chill, his mind stupefied and his body numbed by the much greater horror of the scene he had returned to.

“You said...why did you say that?” Honeyfoot asked him softly. “That is...what you said before.”

Childermass reached out to perhaps pull down the collar on Segundus’ nightclothes, but decided better of it, and sighed.

“It’s gone now,” he said, his own voice dull in his ears. “There was a wound. A puncture wound...a _bitemark.”_

He tapped at his own neck to indicate the placement of the thing, and Honeyfoot covered his mouth, his eyes somehow going even wider.

“You’re...you’re sure?”

Childermass laughed without any humour. He understood Honeyfoot’s sentiment perfectly well- in fact, it rather reminded him of Norrell. _Wouldn’t it better, if this simply wasn’t true?_ But it was true, and ignoring the truth never did anyone good.

“It would explain much,” Childermass told him. “The way nature has been behaving. The sleepwalking. The _anaemia.”_

Honeyfoot nodded slowly, and for a while longer they both looked back at Segundus. Childermass realized that he did not feel quite like himself- his mind was moving too slowly, still numbed by the frozen shock that had been this revelation, and his worry and fear were so exhausted he didn’t even feel them anymore.

“I know…” Honeyfoot trailed off, and seemed to catch himself. “The truth is, I don’t really know anything. This isn’t a subject of magical study that is...orthodox. I don’t mean that it is not respectable- I don’t think even Mr. Strange spent any time on it- it is not English magic in the usual sense.”

Childermass looked back at him, and in his silence Honeyfoot seemed to warm to the subject. He was shivering, but his eyes had a light in them now, and in comparison to the too-still sleeping Segundus he seemed a creature of great motion.

“It is almost _not_ a study of magic,” Honeyfoot said uncertainly. “That is, of course, if it- if it is _real-”_

-his tone of voice suggested that, like Childermass, he had not entirely believed such things to be real until this very day-

“-then there must be magic involved, but it is not like English magic, not like fairy magic, either. It seems more closely connected to- well, to the Church. Heaven and Hell. Temptation and corruption.”

Segundus shifted suddenly in his sleep, taking in a tiny and painful sounding breath of air, and Childermass saw his brow furrow. Was he dreaming? On instinct, Childermass looked out the window over Honeyfoot’s shoulder, but he saw nothing ominous. In fact, the sky was becoming lighter outside, the rain that stained the windows thinner in its torrent. The thunder was intermittent, and seemingly distant, not booming constantly overhead.

Childermass found the reasons for this were as sickening as they were obvious: _it already got what it wanted._

“That’s all well and good,” Childermass said, his tone harsh and, perhaps, uncharitable. Honeyfoot looked a little startled to be broken from his reverie. “But what can we _do_ about it?”

 _I don’t remember anything,_ was what he did not say. Again, he was uncharitable, for this fact was his fault entirely. Why hadn’t he paid closer attention, all those years ago, when he had had a text on the subject in his hands? He could recall the look of the book- it had been a tome, huge and leathery and cracked, worn from decades (or perhaps even centuries) of indelicate handling before coming into Norrell’s possession. Back then, it had not yet been rebound. A book on black magic- a book on _Hell_ magic. He remembered reading it by candlelight. He thought he remembered noticing that the text was in Old English. He did not remember what the text had said...or at least, nothing useful.

“It’s dead,” he said, partly to himself. His mind’s eye strained to read the ragged scrawl on the stained and yellow pages in the vision of his memories. “The- the creature. It might have been a man before, but not anymore, it doesn’t have a soul. Unlike fairies, though, nature turns away from these things...it doesn’t love _them...they_ make it sick…”

 _The garden,_ he thought vaguely. _The horses._ It hadn’t been a ‘curse’ after all, at least not a ‘curse’ in the sense of something more deliberate and ritualized than a cruel thought or a violent instinct. This was ultimately bad news, for it was not something that could be fixed...or at least, not fixed easily.

Childermass felt his own words dry up, and his voice trailed off. The image in his mind wavered and disappeared. He swore quietly. He was a fool! Was that really the best he could do? This was the time of greatest need, and yet he could not recall what was needed. Oh, he had a million memories of Lascelles’ useless periodicals, or the domestic letters from Mrs. Strange to her husband during the war, but he could not remember this!

“When I was a boy, I knew a woman,” Honeyfoot said in his silence. Childermass now saw that his expression had changed- he had begun to look quite determined. “I cannot now remember her name. She worked for my family, and she came from some small country in the East of Europe- something like Wallachia, or, or _Transylvania,_ I believe.”

He paused, and Childermass gestured for him to continue.

“It was from her that I received my childhood education in horror stories,” he said. “And many of them were about creatures such as these. Blood-suckers that came in the night- people with pale skin and no reflection…”

Childermass ground his teeth together as he listened. Did they really have nothing concrete, nothing they could use? He could not bear to be useless, not now. Not when Segundus was lying beside him unconscious and vulnerable, having been _fed upon,_ with blood between his teeth.

“She had children of her own. I don’t know where they worked. When they fell ill, I remember she would always check them for what she called ‘devil’s marks’...around the neck. She tried it on me too, sometimes, but my parents didn’t like it.”

Honeyfoot sighed. Outside, the storm had transformed into a gentle rainfall.

“And she would give them something- what was it? Oh, yes- _garlic._ She grew an inordinate amount of garlic. She would give her children the flowers, or rub their necks with the cloves, and she said this would keep bad spirits away.”

Honeyfoot suddenly smiled the smile of a man enamoured with old childhood memories, ones that he had not taken time to look through in years. 

“Again, my parents didn’t like this, but I admit I found it very interesting. I think it was part of the reason why I wanted to study magic when I was older- to understand the truth behind all the supersitution, the history behind the myth.”

Honeyfoot came back to himself, and folded his hands on his lap. He looked more grounded than before, no longer did he tremble. Childermass understood the new solemnity in his posture. Perhaps it was time for superstition and myth.

“Garlic, you say?” Childermass considered this. He did not know much about the plant by way of English magic- it was not one associated with specific elements or magical properties, and he could not think of a single spell that would use it if something better suited was available. It was a common, inert plant- or so he’d thought.

“Garlic,” Honeyfoot repeated. Childermass looked out the window again. The rain was steady, but he could not hear any thunder. He stood.

“Then I’ll go fetch some,” he said. “Mr. Honeyfoot...take care of him.”

Honeyfoot agreed to do so, and Childermass (with some surprise) realized that he trusted him. With one last look at the sleeping Segundus, he left those chambers again, ignoring the paranoid twinge in the pit of his stomach that appeared. He went down the stairs to the kitchen, where he found some of the women working, and was swamped in an instant with questions about Segundus’ wellbeing- from some of their words it became clear that rumours had spread wild across the school during the hour or so since the horses had been set loose. Childermass assuaged and confirmed and dismissed as was needed to fulfill a basic obligation, and then he returned to the matter at hand:

“Hannah, do you have any garlic in the pantry?” he asked.

“Garlic?” She went through the kitchen to check, and came up with one head and a few loose cloves, enough to fill the palm of her hand. “We have some- is there a dish you wanted made with it? I’ve heard that Italians use garlic very often, but…”

“Bring it up to Mr. Segundus’ rooms,” Childermass told her. “Mr. Honeyfoot will tell you what to do with it.”

But Childermass wasn’t going to go back there himself, not with so paltry an offering. He shrugged on his still-damp greatcoat and left through the front door before anyone else could stop him, out into the rain- the simple, honest, English rain.

Childermass’ first instinct was to saddle Brewer, but he stopped himself, and with no better alternative he headed across the packhorse bridge on foot. He had faced worse than a little rain.

Down in Starecross Village, most things were quiet. The storm had raged through here just this morning. Childermass still went to the grocer, who was surprised to see him, and purchased the single half-head of garlic they had in stock, leftover from a previous season. The woman who took his money looked like she wasn’t sure what to do with a man who walked through rain only to buy garlic, but Childermass didn’t care.

None of the other shops or stalls had anything of the like. Starecross Village was a small place anyway, hardly a booming market, and the crop in question was unpopular and with few uses. Childermass swore to himself, looking down at the mud on his boots. He did not know if what they had was ‘enough’- he didn’t know what ‘enough’ could possibly be, under the circumstances. Perhaps if he had a horse he could ride to York and look for more, but he didn’t have a horse- where in Starecross could he buy a horse? Would there be anyone about whose own animals hadn’t gone mad during the thunderstorm? He could go check at the inn-

Childermass started to walk with this intention, when something caught his eye- the head of a single white clover, sprung up in the mud. A surprisingly gentle natural sight, after all Childermass had been exposed to recently. That’s right. It was spring.

Childermass changed his course, and walked out of the village instead, heading along the path that continued North, away from the school, to where lands would eventually become Scotland. There were some woods here, not especially dense, that gave way in turn to moor and peat and long stretches where all that grew was heather. They were surprisingly green- leaves were budding on the trees, and grasses growing long underfoot, untouched by the corruption that affected Starecross- a corruption that, now he saw, was likely stunting the return of green things for the season. The air smelled fresh in a way that told him he was accustomed to breathing air that was stale. These woods may, once upon a time and perhaps again in the future, contain roads to Other Lands- but there was no such thing here now. There was, however, what he was looking for.

Gathered at the base of a birch tree he found a cluster of ramsons- fresh white flowers in the shape of a star, small and unimpressive, nestled in flat green leaves. ‘Wild garlic’, it was sometimes called- would this do? It had better.

Childermass gathered armfuls of the flower, tucking them into every available pocket on his coat. His first instinct was to take them all, as many as he could carry, but he realized he didn’t know if freshness would be important, and he couldn’t say how long the protection would be required, so he restrained himself, leaving some to be fetched later, to grow and be plentiful. When he was satisfied with his bounty he made his way back through the woods toward the village- a decent forty-five minute walk- and in this time the rain gave up entirely, the clouds gray and empty of any more tears. The fury of the storm from that morning- and all the horror it had brought- seemed very distant indeed.

Childermass spent much of his time walking looking at his mud-stained boots, but when he reached the crossroads that marked the Northern border of Starecross Village a sound caught his attention- the rumble of a horse’s voice.

He found Brewer standing just off the path, looking at him. The great beast was covered in mud, his mane and tail in tangles, his head held at a weary angle. There was no indication of where he might have come from, or where he could have gone in the storm- but that much probably didn’t matter. Having got Childermass’ attention, he nickered again.

“Come along, then,” Childermass said to him, beckoning with one hand, and with a dull snort the horse picked his way onto the path, and the two made their way into the village together. While they walked, Childermass checked him for injuries, but he did not seem to have sustained anything beyond fatigue- though of course, a more thorough examination would need to be conducted later, by someone with more skill.

The village was still mostly quiet when Childermass returned, and those who were out and about only paid him and his mud-stained beast the mildest of suspicious looks. Childermass did not think to say anything to them, intending simply to return to Starecross, until he found himself on the road outside a certain central building- the church.

The building itself was far from the height of architectural excess, but against the gray light of the late afternoon clouds its face was transformed into something dark. The patterns in its windows could not be seen, and so they less resembled windows so much as peering, sullen eyes. The spire stood out against the sky, an imprint, and Childermass felt something inside him stir at that sight in a way it never had before.

Childermass, for lack of rope, left Brewer by the fence of the churchyard, where he figured the animal would stay, content to munch on some of the new grass cropping up around the wood there. Looking and feeling incredibly silly with his mud-splattered boots and damp jacket and pockets full of wildflowers he went up to the church’s front door and, finding it unlocked, slipped inside.

He had never been especially fond of the Church- it wasn’t the kind of place for men like him, what with all the things he had done, the ways he had lived his life. He had always felt more loyalty for the King. But still, he removed his hat once inside, folding it in his gloved hands. Besides, he wasn’t here for himself. Whatever ‘trespasses’ Segundus might have committed _(such as lying with another man)_ Childermass couldn’t believe that any sort of God could find him guilty or wanting. He was simply too good.

The minister approached Childermass from a room at the back of the main area, clearly having heard the door open. He looked somewhat perturbed at the sight of Childermass standing there, but not overly so, and he rubbed his hands together with the attitude of an energetic older gentleman getting ready to dig into some work as he spoke:

“Hello! Pardon me, child, but I do not remember your name- you are from the magic school, yes?”

Childermass was somewhat taken aback by being called ‘child’, but he confirmed that he was, indeed, from ‘the magic school’.

“Has the trouble there increased?” the minister asked. “I have been keeping a close eye on the village myself- and I certainly have seen the symptoms that were described- tell me, have you made any headway in discovering the nature of the problem?”

“Yes,” Childermass replied before he realized he might not have the strength to tell this man the truth- and that even if he did, he might not be believed. He grit his teeth. “I do not believe anyone in the village is in danger.”

That was true enough, wasn’t it? Unless any other beautiful men or women here were bedridden, with cold fevers and missing memories, bite marks on their throats.

“That is good news,” the minister said. “Though I will continue my prayers anyway.”

“Father,” Childermass interrupted, finding he did not like the atmosphere in the room (this room that he never visited). “Do you have a cross that I could borrow?”

The words sounded harsh with the way they fell off his tongue (as heavy as riverstones), but Childermass knew no other way to say them. The minister fell silent. For a moment, Childermass thought he was going to be refused- but perhaps the man saw something in him, something like _desperation,_ a man with flowers growing out of his clothes and shadows under his eyes and unshaven cheeks. A man who’s beloved was dying before his eyes.

Though, that wasn’t entirely right. Segundus wasn’t dying, he was being _murdered._

The minister lifted from around his own neck what Childermass had asked for- a simple wooden cross, comparable in size to a woman’s hand, hung from a long wooden strap. It was in Childermass’ hands before he could say anything in protest, a smooth and mild weight, and the sight of it in so unfitting a place made something catch in Childermass’ throat.

“Do not be afraid,” the minister said to him gently. “Evil cannot claim that which is most important.”

“Thank you,” Childermass said dully. He wasn’t sure if he would be able to explain himself, but thankfully the minister didn’t ask any questions- perhaps whatever Levy and Purfois had said to him before, whatever he had seen, had been enough to take away such needs.

“Thank Him,” the minister said, and then he rubbed his hands together again. “And be sure to keep me informed- many people are worried about what’s going on up there. And moreover, I am here to help.”

Childermass nodded, and without another word took his leave, walking back out into the sweet smelling spring air. It felt very good to breathe after the wooden smell of the church walls, the unwelcome feeling of being looked in upon, the too-charitable eyes of the minister.

Would he still be so charitable, if he knew the truth?

Childermass shook himself. He did not mean to be so ridiculous- he was not sure what had come over him. He shouldn’t have asked the man for his personal belongings, he did not even know if what he was holding would do any good- but the sight of the black spire against the pale gray sky had put a sense of superstition in him. Honeyfoot had called it Hell magic. A magic even the infamous Jonathan Strange, with his so-called Black Letters and even blacker tower had never even looked at. A magic that histories of the Raven King ignored.

_Vampire._

What a horrible word.

Brewer was where Childermass had left him, and he was content to leave his resting place with a pair of clicks from Childermass’ tongue, and the pair made the rest of their way up the long dirt road to Starecross proper. Childermass found that on the way the sweet spring smell faded, replaced steadily by something flatter, bleaker- a smell like mould or old stone. The grass did not grow as liberally as it did down in the village (which, even then, had not been so abundant at all) and there certainly were no flowers. The water in the brook below the packhorse bridge moved sluggishly, and Childermass saw nothing of life in it- no weeds nor minnows nor early insects. The entire place really was sick. 

Childermass returned Brewer to the stables, and set the servants who came to greet him to the task of his care. The horse seemed content enough to settle back in, unbothered by the old panic-smell that clung to the wood- but he had always been a reliable animal in that way.

Childermass went inside, intending to go straight to Segundus, but when he arrived in the study the image was not so peaceful as he would have hoped- the room was full of faculty, all in grim discussion, though they fell silent when they saw Childermass standing there. Not one of them said anything regarding his jacket, overflowing with flowerheads.

“We have decided to close the school for the time being,” Honeyfoot said to fill the air. Everyone watched him- perhaps some expected him to protest, or hoped he would, but he did not. He bowed his head to Honeyfoot in acquiescence.

“The students have already been told,” Honeyfoot continued, seeming relieved that Childermass had not questioned him. “Some of the boys who live nearby will be out by tomorrow morning, the rest by the end of the weekend. The faculty will stay. It is best for everyone’s safety, given the...circumstances.”

 _We will wish we had that accountant,_ Childermass thought, suddenly feeling dizzy with the magnitude of it all. He sighed, and no one said anything else to him.

“I’ll be with the headmaster,” he said, to escape the air in the room as much as anything, and he passed through the study (too small a place to share with so many men) somewhat awkwardly to the bedroom, closing the door behind him. Conversation started up again in the room behind- the voices sounded resigned. Childermass understood. There would be a lot of work to do following such a decision. There would be a lot of work to do when it came to the problem that lay before him.

Segundus was asleep on the bed- or at least he appeared to be, but when Childermass sat down on the armchair beside it (surprised at the falling weight of his own body- he didn’t deserve to be so exhausted) he opened his eyes. There was no distinction between his pupil and iris in this light, as though they had combined and become a collapsar, where nothing bright still shone.

“How are you?” Childermass asked at the same time as Segundus said “Where did you go?”

There was a fumbling sort of quiet on Childermass’ end, and when Segundus made no move to say anything he replied:

“I went to get you something. Now, I’m hardly a romantic, but…” he pulled some of the ramsons from an assortment of pockets and gathered them into a bouquet, holding them up in offering. Segundus smiled wanly, brushing the edges of the white flowers with his fingertips.

“You are more romantic than you think,” he murmured, conscious of the men gathered next door, and leaned in (his neck straining to rise from the pillows) to smell them, though once he did he instantly recoiled.

“Goodness! What _is_ that?”

“Wild garlic,” Childermass said with a chuckle (though he did not think the flowers smelled so very strongly himself). “Honeyfoot thinks it will help you. I have some of the typical kind, also.”

He pulled from his pocket a few of the loose cloves from the shopkeeper, and Segundus waved his hand away with a weak laugh.

“How dreadful! You’ve resorted to kitchen remedies to save me.” 

These last words somehow sobered them both, but perhaps in Segundus’ case it was simply that he had tired himself out, for when he blinked his eyes stayed closed for a long time.

“How do you feel?” Childermass asked, trying again.

“I am very tired,” Segundus said. “And cold. That is all.”

“How are your wounds?” 

Segundus shrugged. “They itch,” he said mildly. 

“Are you hungry?” Childermass tried to remember the last time Segundus had eaten- could it have been before the storm? If he had slept until now, perhaps no one had brought him dinner, and if this was so Childermass would seek to rectify it at once-

“No,” Segundus replied. “I am not hungry in the slightest.”

A quiet passed over them for a moment, while Segundus’ eyes drifted over the ceiling. It looked like perhaps he had had something to say, and now could not remember it, or even simply did not have the energy to.

“I have something else for you as well,” Childermass said, and Segundus turned his head back to look.

“Another present? I am spoiled.”

Childermass lifted the minister’s wooden cross into the light of the candle by Segundus’ bed (for now, the sun was near setting outside) and Segundus’ face gave a peculiar twitch at the sight- a brief narrowing of the eyes, a downturning of the lips that was gone in an instant. He reached for the thing with trembling fingertips, and Childermass gave it to him, wrapping white fingers around the wood so that for a moment both of their hands held it. Segundus bit his lower lip.

“Put it on me,” he whispered, his voice harsh on the edges of his throat. “I am not sure if I can do it myself.”

Childermass helped Segundus sit up and lay the leather strap around his neck, so the cross fell down to his chest, joining the silver bell that he still wore. At first Segundus seemed to shiver at the sensation, but then he settled, and perhaps it was an illusion but his eyes seemed to become a little brighter.

“All decked up now, aren’t I,” he murmured bashfully, plucking at the pair of strings.

“The least you deserve,” Childermass told him. A tiny touch of colour appeared high on Segundus’ cheeks- far from the intensity he usually achieved- and the sight was reassuring.

“The mirror you bought me,” Segundus added, “it is broken, isn’t it? I confess I...I cannot entirely remember.”

“Yes,” Childermass told him, and Segundus frowned, looking down at his lap. 

“It is alright,” Childermass continued, because it was likely Segundus was feeling guilty on that point. “It wasn’t so very expensive.”

“I just lied to you,” Segundus said suddenly. His voice sounded very harsh again, and his fingers twitched on his lap, too weak to form fists. “I don’t know why, but I just did.”

Segundus’ jaw clenched. Childermass watched him, not daring to say a word.

“I do remember what happened to the mirror. I remember thinking I could use it- that I could keep him away somehow- but I looked in it and…”

Segundus lifted his hands up to his eyes, and Childermass saw he was shaking terribly, his chest rising and falling like he was struggling to breathe.

 _“...and I couldn’t see my face._ I threw it away, then, I couldn’t bear it. I broke it, not him, he came after...it was like the sound of the thing smashing summoned him, but I think he was there the whole time. Watching me.”

In what looked like a Herculean effort Segundus closed his eyes and lowered his hands, inhaling through his nose to compose himself. Childermass noticed then- something about the light did it- that Segundus must have lost more weight somewhere in the last week, for his face had turned sharp, his jaw and cheekbones jutted forward in his white face in a way they hadn’t before. With his eyes closed, the dark lids touched the dark circles beneath them, and he became the illusion of a solemn skull.

“You do know what I mean, don’t you,” Segundus said quietly, opening his eyes again (a small relief). “When I say _‘him’?”_

“Aye,” Childermass replied. “That I do.”

Segundus sighed, a long, cold sound, and he rested back on the pillows, not saying anything more. Childermass suddenly couldn’t stand being seated, being motionless, and he stood, pulling the day’s bounty from assorted pockets in his clothes. He put cloves of garlic in all four corners of the room, the way Black Joan had taught him to use chestnuts to ward away spiders, and used the water in the ewer by Segundus’ nightstand and any empty jar or penholder to set vases of the ramsons on every flat surface. Some of the flowers he lay out dry across the windowsill, and once he had he set the regular protective spells also (though so far, these hadn’t been as proof as he would have liked). 

Segundus watched him with half-lidded eyes. The downwards turn of his lips was unbearable.

The discussion in the room over came to a stuttering end, and eventually Honeyfoot poked his head into the bedroom. Segundus did not address him, looking down at the wooden cross on his chest (it somehow looked too big for him) and so Childermass did the greeting in his stead.

“We’ll be retiring for the night,” Honeyfoot told them. “There will be much to do in the morning. How is everything here?”

“What do you think?” Childermass asked. “Is this how your serving woman would set it up?”

“I think so,” Honeyfoot replied with what was clearly supposed to be a reassuring grin. “Just don’t forget-”

-he gestured, rubbing at his neck with pinched fingers-

“-and be sure to ring if there is any disturbance. We’ll...we’ll stop this thing.”

With that pathetically uncertain declaration Honeyfoot took his leave, and Childermass sat down in the armchair again, pulling out another clove of garlic to finish the task. Segundus eyed it with distaste, but still he undid the top button of his nightgown, baring his slender neck. Childermass saw his heartbeat pulse in the thick blue line of his jugular. Segundus couldn’t have had any time to shave in recent days, and yet no stubble had appeared, neither here nor on his cheeks- his skin was smooth and faintly translucent, in a way that reminded Childermass of the day Lady Pole’s enchantment had been lifted- how very frail he had been then.

Segundus grit his teeth as Childermass began to rub the peeled clove over the skin on his neck, and Childermass ensured he was as gentle as possible, for fear of breaking that too-delicate skin. Being touched in such a place was also clearly distressing to him, for he shivered, his chest rising too steeply to catch air.

“I’m sorry,” Childermass said when he was done. At first, he only meant for the discomfort, and then he realized it was much more. “I’m sorry I did not realize it sooner...I’m sorry I am of little help now.”

“It does not matter,” Segundus said in a surprisingly un-Segundus-like tone of voice- his usual nervous tension was gone, and along with it his sweetness. Perhaps he was too tired even for that. “He won’t come tonight.”

Childermass could guess why- _the thing was already full._ The thought was so perverse that for a moment it was him with the clenched jaw and fists. He closed his eyes, and for the span of a breath the world behind them spun in white, and while he was angry at the monster that was hurting Segundus, he knew he was also angry at himself.

“That isn’t what I meant,” Childermass said quietly. “I have not done well by you.”

Segundus gave him a rather sharpish look, though this too was not of the customary variety of Segundus’ sharp looks- he did not seem indignant, perhaps, so much as cold, and Childermass couldn’t help but assume this meant he agreed. This thought turned something sour in Childermass’ stomach.

“Kiss me,” Segundus said suddenly, and he reached out with one white hand, his fingers trailing the lapel of Childermass’ jacket. Childermass accepted the offer and brought Segundus’ knuckles to his lips, and then he turned the hand over to kiss his palm, the swell of his thumb, the violently apparent blue veins at the joint of his wrist. Segundus smiled a little, but it wasn’t a Segundus-like smile.

“Kiss my mouth,” he commanded, and Childermass obeyed. Segundus’ lips were still soft to the touch, the way they always had been- and the kiss was gentle, accompanied by cold air on Childermass’ cheek where Segundus exhaled through his nose, and cold fingertips on the edge of Childermass’ jaw. 

They held this kiss for some time, Childermass trying to put as much warmth as he could into it, as though through such contact he could give Segundus some of his own strength- his vitality, a thing Segundus had ever been somewhat lacking. But when they fell apart, Segundus’ lips were as cold as they had been before.

“I love you,” Segundus murmured- as always, saying it first.

“I love you, too,” Childermass replied, and then Segundus closed his eyes, rolling his head to the side on the pillow. 

“Goodnight,” he said softly.

“Goodnight.”

Segundus fell asleep very quickly after that, but Childermass did not. He sat in the armchair and watched the candle flicker, and tried not to think of the worst thing that could happen- if after everything Segundus had survived this would be his last, losing battle. It had been easy for Childermass to crush him down- take away his colleagues, his livelihood, his dreams- so why was it so hard to lift him up, to _save_ him? The question of this injustice burned circles in his brain by the dancing light, for there was no solution.

When Childermass was finally sick of himself (sometime not so long before the witching hour) he undressed and joined Segundus in bed. Even in sleep, Segundus’ arms welcomed him readily, and Childermass returned the embrace quite surely- if he was going to close his eyes, he didn’t dare leave Segundus lying beyond his grasp.

Against his collar, he could feel Segundus’ cold breath- but there was breath. That much was reassuring, wasn’t it?


	10. blood of my blood, my bountiful wine-press

The next morning Childermass woke with the dawn, and Segundus slept late. Nothing had come for him in the night. Before breakfast Childermass searched his chambers for any signs of disturbance- open windows, knocked over chairs- but there was nothing. The ramsons he had put out on the windowsill had withered, but they had not been in water, either.

The weather that day had greatly improved (though still some mild gray clouds stopped the sun from shining in full) and the doctor was called in from the village to check Segundus’ wounds. By the time he arrived Segundus was awake, though he did not say much, and he put up with the examination in a very dignified manner. The review was positive, also- the doctor cleaned and rebandaged the cuts from the mirror-glass, saying that whoever had done the deed the first time had managed very well, and since none of the wounds were deep or complex enough to require stitching Segundus should manage fine on his own.

“But why did no one call me sooner?” he asked. “These must be about a week old- you know, if he had gotten infected, it might have been too late by now.”

That thought sent a lurch through Childermass’ stomach, and before he could recover from it Levy spoke:

“But it hasn’t been a week, sir. These were sustained yesterday, in the storm.”

The doctor had no answer for that. The dark looks the faculty members gave each other at this revelation also sparked his curiosity (“Could this be a matter of your magic?”) but they were able to usher him on his way without delving too deeply into the subject. It seemed that the men of the house had silently, but unanimously, agreed that it wouldn’t do any good to be parading the nature of their situation about too liberally. Magic itself, until very recently, had been a matter of superstition to many- and this went beyond that, to a place where even the most open-minded of academics might scoff. The last thing they needed was for the school to be discredited, for Segundus to be sent to a sanatorium.

“Well then, it’s about time for some lunch,” Honeyfoot said once the doctor had left. “Don’t you think, Mr. Segundus?”

Segundus agreed unenthusiastically, and orders were sent down to the kitchen for a meal to be prepared. Meanwhile, the rest of the school was in a flurry also- the students and other supplementary staff were still packing their bags, some leaving on their own, others in carriages that pulled up to the front gate. Even they hadn’t been told the whole truth- only that the curse the school was under had taken a turn for the worse, and for their safety classes would be suspended, in the same manner as if an outbreak of some infectious disease had occurred. Many of the students wanted to say goodbye to Segundus before leaving- offer him good luck or warding charms, of the kinds he had taught them- but he refused to see them. Childermass was a little surprised by this- or perhaps, more surprised by the uncaring way in which Segundus said it- but honoured the request. 

Before long, Starecross would be reduced to a ghost of itself once more- a shadowy and empty building full of unfulfilled potential, with unwalked stone paths that traveled through leafless trees, and wings of rooms where no door needed to be opened by anyone. Childermass wondered if this saddened Segundus- it was his dream, after all, this school- but Segundus did not seem to notice. He did not open the window in his bedroom to let in the daylight, or to watch the carriages of his pupils leave. He barely ate any lunch, only sipped some broth from the soup and drank water. He was too weak to stand and walk about for long periods of time, but he was also too restless to sleep. Childermass did not leave his side, even though the weather was good.

“These things smell so strongly,” Segundus complained (which was rare! Childermass almost never saw Segundus complain, even when he deserved to.) “it’s making my head hurt. I don’t know how you can stand it.”

“The garlic?” Childermass asked, and Segundus nodded in a way that seemed to say _yes, obviously the garlic._

“Can’t we move some of it?” Segundus asked, and then before Childermass could he answered his own question: “No, we mustn’t. We have to... _ugh.”_

Segundus hid his face in his hands, and Childermass reached for him, but without looking he shifted away to the other side of the bed. His movements were too like the ones of a person in pain- his legs wound together, he gripped his shoulders and neck and the cloth of the thin shirt he was wearing each in turn, clearly exhausted and yet unable to settle. 

“Would anything else help?” Childermass asked, without a clue of what ‘anything’ could be. A tea tray, a cold face cloth? Just seeing Segundus in such a state was enough to make Childermass feel like he had something of a fever himself- his skin was too hot, and sweat gathered under his arms and across his chest. Segundus, by contrast, didn’t seem to sweat at all- perhaps he was too cold for that, but he didn’t wrap himself in the many warm blankets on the bed.

“Could you turn off the sun?” Segundus replied with a delirious sounding little laugh. “The way it shines in my eyes- I feel like it is a lance, stabbing me.”

Childermass was disquieted by this. On instinct he had stood to close the curtains- but they were already closed quite tightly, Segundus had ensured this earlier in the day. The room was lit only by the ambient glow that those curtains couldn’t block out, and it was very little. There was nothing to ‘stab’ at anyone’s eyes, and Segundus was facing away from the window anyway. It was as if the sun’s very presence in the sky was what distressed him.

“You mustn’t shift about so much,” Childermass said, since he couldn’t think of anything else to say. “You still have those cuts. If you can sleep, everything will go by much faster.”

“I can’t sleep,” Segundus said harshly. “My head hurts so much...and I am terribly thirsty.”

Childermass brought him some water from the basin in the room, but he only drank a little before turning away again. Childermass reached out and touched his forehead- he was so cold to the touch his skin almost burned. This was not a fever in the usual sense- but none of what was happening was in the ‘usual sense’.

It was then that Childermass remembered something- why, it felt like months since this had happened, yet it had barely been a few weeks. He opened the drawer on Segundus’ bedside table, and there it was- the laudanum that the doctor had given Segundus for his sleepwalking. They hadn’t used any of it. It seemed strange to use it now, but Segundus was so _uncomfortable…_

“I’ll give you a drop,” Childermass said, holding up the bottle for Segundus to see. “Perhaps it will help your headache.”

Segundus didn’t verbally agree or disagree, but he watched Childermass fill the cup again, with water and a single drop of the drug. His eyes glittered in the dusky light of the room. When offered the cup, he drank all its contents down, and then lay back on the pillows.

“This is pathetic,” he said flatly. There was a pessimism in his voice that was unlike him- as unlike him as so many things he did these days. “All we are doing is waiting, as if it’s going to go away. Well, it’s not going to go away, is it?”

“What’s not going away?” Childermass asked, and Segundus smiled almost _slyly,_ his eyelids fluttering slowly shut and open again. He had stopped moving about so desperately, his muscles relaxed one by one, and his anxious hands stilled.

“My headache,” he replied mockingly, and then his eyes closed again for good. Childermass watched him for a few moments more, making sure he really was asleep, and then he put the laudanum bottle back in the drawer. He hoped it wouldn’t give Segundus bad dreams- he had enough fuel to conjure up terrible ones, under the circumstances. 

Since Segundus hadn’t done so himself, Childermass wrapped that sleeping body in the blankets, tucking him in as if this would somehow take away the chill that seemed to be coming from Segundus’ very core. Well, it felt good to do something, at any rate.

Yes. It did feel good to do _something._

Childermass stepped out of the bedroom and into Segundus’ study, though he left the connecting door wide open, refusing to let the bundle on the bed out of sight. He looked about himself- Segundus had some books in this study. There were more in the library downstairs. Starecross had nothing in comparison to the lost Hurtview, but who knew? Maybe it would have _something._

Childermass picked up a history on elder magicks, and began to read.

By nightfall, he had made his way through almost everything in Segundus’ study (everything that was not his own journals or publications- at one point Childermass had picked up Segundus’ book on fairy servants, thinking perhaps it was a text on magical beings in general, and then remembering that he had read this particular book many times already and that it contained nothing on the subject at hand) with no success. But perhaps he should have expected this- _vampires_ were hardly a subject in English magic, being by all accounts superstitions from the continent, and mostly from the East (which Englishmen by and large disregarded academically). He was caught in the same position as before, when the entire faculty had been researching curses- there simply wasn’t enough here. Childermass’ damned former master had taken all the books of quality away with him to god-knows-where, leaving them with naught but half-remembered fragments and hearsay. 

_It’s not going to go away,_ Segundus said.

Charles came in around eight, asking Childermass if he would be coming to dinner, and when he asked that food be brought to Segundus’ rooms it was- and so was the rest of the faculty, dragged behind like puppies following a dish. A table was brought into the study (cramped enough as it was) and as they ate they discussed. The others had been doing as Childermass had- researching in books, in memories, using spells of revelation and divination. All to no avail. No one even knew, really, what they were looking for- a way to break the hold the creature had over Segundus, or a way to banish it from England? A way to dissuade it permanently from its prey? A way to _kill_ it? They were walking in uncharted grounds. 

Halfway through the meal, Segundus stirred from his drugged sleep. Childermass saw him move in the shadowy bedroom through the open door, where the light from the study barely penetrated- Segundus’ eyes glowed in the darkness like a cat’s. He put a robe on over his dressing gown and came to stand in the doorway, barefoot and with his arms folded across his chest, his face still fogged from sleep.

Childermass was reasonably certain the others were alarmed by the sight of him, for Childermass certainly was. He looked _so_ thin and _so_ young, and his pitch-black hair moved as if affected by a wind not felt by anyone else, and the smile on his white lips didn’t reach his eyes.

“I didn’t realize it was so important to watch me that you must take your dinner here,” Segundus said mildly, and Honeyfoot urged him to sit down in the one empty chair they had left despite his state of undress and take some of the meal for himself.

Well, Segundus did sit, opposite Childermass and between Honeyfoot and Purfois (where his appearance was made even more startling), but he didn’t eat. The others piled his plate in hope of tempting him, but he only stirred the food about with his fork. He did drink some brandy (which Childermass hoped would warm him) and had a spoonful of the cranberry preserve that had been served with the meat- but the taste of it seemed to disappoint him, and he did not go back for more.

“I think I’ll return to bed,” Segundus said when the meal was over (about ten o’clock that night). “I believe I’m still somewhat...under the influence.”

(Childermass hoped this was in reference to the laudanum, and found he did not like the wistful way Segundus looked over his shoulder to the closed and bolted window behind the study desk.)

“One of us should stay with you to keep watch,” Levy said. He looked over at Childermass. “I can tonight, sir, so you can get your rest.”

Childermass opened his mouth to protest this, and then realized he did not have any decent-sounding reason to protest this, but Segundus spoke for him:

“Oh, I believe Mr. Childermass will be alright for another night,” he said airily, without quite looking at any of them. “We have become quite used to each other.”

Childermass nodded stiffly to that, and waved away any other protests, and before long the remnants of the meal had been cleared away and the rest of the men were retiring. Segundus slipped back into the bedroom without acknowledging them, which left Childermass to awkwardly do all of the polite dismissals. By the sounds coming from the dark room, Segundus seemed to be rummaging through his drawers.

When they were alone again Childermass snuffed all the candles but one and brought that into the bedroom. Segundus was standing by the window, one finger hooking back the curtains to peer into the night beyond, but he turned back at the sound of the candleholder thumping on his bedside table.

“How do you feel now?” Childermass asked him, sitting down on the bed. Segundus smiled a close-lipped smile.

“You must be growing tired of that question,” he replied, and then he leaned in and kissed Childermass on the lips. 

It was a slow, but passionate kiss- a knee parted Childermass’ legs and pressed between them, and Childermass wrapped his fingers about Segundus’ slender waist, where even through the fabric of his nightclothes he felt bones shift too clearly. Segundus’ tongue was bitter against his own.

“Do you think any of them suspect?” Segundus murmured into Childermass’ ear. Cold fingertips traced Childermass’ jaw, and teeth closed painlessly about the lobe of his ear, which was a sensation so startlingly erotic Childermass was sure he made some kind of undignified noise.

“The other gentlemen?” he asked to cover it up, and Segundus laughed quietly. “I doubt it. Everyone is preoccupied with...well. You know it.”

“I know it,” Segundus repeated with a sigh. He pushed on Childermass’ shoulders, moving him back onto the bed, and lay himself down halfway overtop, so that their legs entangled and his lips rested in the hollow of Childermass’ neck.

“Don’t worry,” Childermass told him, in case he was- for it was like Segundus to worry, after all- but even as he said it Childermass felt doubt. It was not like the Segundus of _today_ to worry.

“I’m not,” Segundus told him. “I am tired. I wish I could sleep for a hundred years- behind a hedge of thorns, like a princess. Don’t you? Aren’t you tired?”

As though the words were a spell, the sound of them made them true. Childermass was tired, his eyelids were suddenly heavy, and the blood in his head keeping him aware suddenly seemed to pool in his body, as all his limbs felt drawn towards the mattress beneath him. He almost said something- he knew not what- but all that passed his lips was a long sigh. 

“That’s right,” Segundus said, and in his voice there was a laugh, and the sound of it seemed to come from somewhere inside Childermass’ own head. “Let’s fall asleep together.”

...and every part of Childermass’ body agreed with that. One part of his mind cried out, distantly, in protest- he still had to do something, perhaps multiple somethings, though at the moment he could not remember what- but the alarm was not heeded. Childermass was so very, very tired, and beneath him was a soft bed, and in his arms was his beloved, so what harm could be done?

Without thinking anything more, he fell asleep.

…!

Childermass woke with what felt like a jolt- as though in a dream he had been running very fast, and had tripped into the bed. The world was dark around him. For a moment he was confused- he recognized the smell of this place, it was Segundus’ rooms, but his arms were empty.

Childermass sat up, launched into wakefulness by sudden alarm. He was still dressed, and Segundus was gone- again. How could he have fallen asleep? His head throbbed briefly in time with his blood, and all his limbs felt distant- there was a bitter taste in his mouth he now recognized. Laudanum.

Had Segundus _drugged him?_

Childermass’ eyes strained around the room- if this was true Segundus must be here, he had drugged himself too- but it was empty, as he had first thought. He stood (he hadn’t even taken his boots off before falling asleep- thank goodness) and on instinct threw open the curtain, letting a wan moonlight fill the room. For a moment this light blinded him, but with a harsh shake of his head the night took form behind the glass.

Ah, he wasn’t too late- Segundus was there, outside on the path.

He hadn’t dressed himself, and Childermass could see by his slow, uneven gait that he must be sleepwalking. Childermass didn’t think to waste another moment preparing himself, Segundus was outside and vulnerable, but as he turned to leave something caught his eye- the wooden cross Segundus had worn about his neck lay discarded on the white coverlet of his bed. Under the moon it looked a black and unsettling thing.

Childermass grabbed it and ran for the stairs, calling out alarm as he did so.

But he did not wait to see if anyone (a poor sleeper or attentive servant) heard him. He went straight out the front door into the dew-chilled night, kicking through the low-settled mist that had appeared over the ground. He saw Segundus not far from where he had spotted him from the window, disappearing into the trees of the walking paths- trees that should have been plain and well-tamed, but became somehow eerie under the colouring of night.

The fog was thicker here.

“Mr. Segundus, sir,” Childermass called. “John!”

For a moment his heart squeezed in his chest, for Segundus (in his ridiculous white nightgown) disappeared in the opaque air, but in a few more steps Childermass found him again, heading slowly but resolutely forward with no sign that he had heard Childermass’ cries.

Childermass took Segundus’ hand in his free one- thank the Lord, what a solid hand! It was not a mirage he had chased but the man.

“Alright, love,” Childermass said, surprised to find his voice shake as he did. “Let’s get you back inside.”

Segundus did not seem to hear him. His eyes were open but half-lidded and empty, and though he was too weak to break free he attempted to continue walking into the fog. Childermass took his shoulders and shook them first lightly, and then more firmly when Segundus did not stir. There still was no reaction- unlike last time, when Segundus had woken from a simple touch.

“Come on,” Childermass hissed, feeling the fog close tight about their faces. He did not like the look of this fog- it had the promise of a ticking clock in a nightmare, counting down to some horrid fate. After all, weather had not been behaving of its own accord lately. But he did not think he could carry an entirely unwilling Segundus back to the house on his own- he was not as young as he had once been and Segundus, though small, was still a grown man.

Childermass saw suddenly that the first few buttons on Segundus’ nightgown had come undone (or _been undone)_ and the sight of that pale triangle of flesh sent him a strike of inspiration- or perhaps, desperation.

Childermass pulled Segundus to his chest and twisted his head back, biting down on the side of his throat. He did not do it harshly- only enough, he had hoped, to frighten Segundus into waking- but still the skin broke under his teeth, as sickeningly thin and taught as the flesh of a plum. Blood flooded his mouth, thick and hot and coppery, and Childermass pulled his lips away to spit and gag. Segundus did not wake up. He strained his neck forward, letting out a tiny moan, the only betrayal of his distress in the faint furrowing of his dark eyebrows.

“Not bad, no?” said a voice.

A voice that came not from the house behind them, but from the path ahead. 

A voice Childermass realized he had heard before.

Segundus shivered unconsciously against him, and very slowly, Childermass turned.

The fog had cleared around the vampire. He stood in it like an actor stood in the spotlight of a stage, the moonlight brighter upon him than anything else. Childermass recognized him at once, in a deep, instinctual way- but he also looked much different from the thing Childermass now remembered from the pub. For one, he had become much, much more beautiful. His white skin had filled, taking on a soft and youthful quality, no longer so sunken and dry as a skull. His clothes, though still out of fashion, fit him better, and those that had been disturbing yellow fingernails were replaced with crystal claws that shimmered like opals on the ends of his fingers. His hair curled sweetly about his face, looking clean when before it had been greasy, and his eyes glowed the colour of the papal robe.

_Red._

Worse than all of this, there was something about him that _looked like Segundus._ It was not a precise copy- he still had a face of his own- but a shadow of Segundus’ particular prettiness fell across him like a veil, in the illusion of his soft-looking lips and wide eyes and thin brows.

 _You are what you eat,_ Childermass thought with a revulsion that chilled him to his core.

“Stay away,” he snarled at the thing, clutching Segundus close to his chest. “You can’t have him.”

“I already have him,” the vampire replied. His accent made the self-satisfaction in his voice even more audible. 

“No,” Childermass said, as if what he said mattered, and he began again trying to drag Segundus away. Segundus had become as limp as a rag doll, barely holding himself up against Childermass’ chest, and he made little progress. Which way was Starecross, again? Childermass did not have Segundus’ talent for directions, and only his memory helped him; it was imperative not to become lost in this fog. Perhaps it was too late, but perhaps it wasn’t, perhaps if they could make it back to the well-lit house...

“I own your house,” the vampire said, and he smiled. Fangs as long and slender as an adder’s teased his lower lip. “And I own your lover. You won’t be safe there- you won’t be safe anywhere.”

These words did not sound like a threat. The vampire spoke calmly, almost whimsically, the way someone might scold an errant pet- with a fondness that presumed the listener too stupid to understand what was being said. Well, Childermass lived up to the assumption, continuing to drag Segundus down the flagstones, matched step for step by the creature in the moonlight, who maintained the distance between them effortlessly.

“I wanted to own you, too,” the vampire continued. “I almost did. I was quite charmed by you, you know. What a dark, mysterious man! Quite handsome. I was hungry, and you looked _delicious.”_

Childermass felt a chill run over his skin at these words- his wrist suddenly stung, and when he looked down he saw the flesh there had split in a thin red line. A wound that had left no scar had opened up again. Childermass now recognized it for what it was- a claim.

“But you showed me something even better,” the vampire purred and, sickeningly, he ran a tongue as red as spring cherries over his white teeth, eyes flicking down to Segundus’ vulnerable form. Childermass remembered that now, too, and it made his stomach twist. So, this too was his fault- he ruined Segundus at every turn, no matter how he tried not to.

“No, no,” the vampire said, responding once more to his thoughts, no doubt plucked from behind his eyes by a force Childermass couldn’t understand. “He’s not ruined- he will not be ruined. He will be _extraordinary._ I will make him one with me, you see- it has been so very long since I have had a fledgling. I long for company, and as you know, he makes such charming company.”

Childermass exhausted himself in the time it took the vampire to say those words, and he knew he was not going to make it back to the house. Time and space took on strange forms in this fog- he could not say if he had made any progress in the right direction or not, or if Starecross still even stood where it was supposed to. And besides, it was a poor plan- the thing ‘wasn’t going away’. Escape had been a doomed option from the beginning.

Childermass knelt, gathering Segundus in his arms, who fell like a puppet with cut strings. He was fast asleep, his head resting lightly on Childermass’ shoulder, and Childermass spared only a moment to regard that pretty face- but a moment was all he deserved.

“Take me instead,” he said to the vampire. “I have lived many lives- I know many ways to be _charming.”_

What he didn’t say- but was sure was clear anyway- was that he was already a dark thing, a _shadow._ If he fell out of the world the world would not miss him. But Segundus- he who was so full of light and goodness, to put him in the night would be a travesty indeed. More than that, Childermass wanted Segundus to live. He had much to live for. He deserved his dreams- Childermass had never had any particular dreams, so if one had to die…

“Oh, now that’s an idea,” the vampire said with a grin. He stepped forward, closing the distance for the first time, his fingers curling into claws at his sides. “I could have you _both.”_

Childermass opened his mouth to protest- that wasn’t what he had intended- but any words he might have said were whipped from his lips by the images that were pushed into his mind. He saw Segundus- a Segundus that fulfilled every part of Vinculus’ prophecy, with pitch-black hair and pure white skin and lips red from having been smeared with blood. This Segundus had red eyes, too, and he was naked on a bed of wilted roses, reaching out with clawed fingertips for Childermass, a too-familiar expression of pleasure on his face.

In this dream-vision Childermass saw himself as though leaving his own body, moving forward to accept the embrace. The false-Childermass’ hair was loose and better combed than his own ever was, running down his back in waves, and his skin too had become as pale as the face of the moon. For a moment he saw a flicker of his own face- colder and smoother than it was in life, having taken on a kind of flawless youth that he did not think he had ever truly lived through- and then the perspective righted itself and he watched the false-Segundus wrap white arms around his other self’s back, looking over his shoulder with those brilliant red eyes. Segundus kissed Childermass’ throat, and as their bodies came together the roses beneath them came back to life, the petals engorging with blood and turning red, swelling, expanding...

_“NO!”_

Childermass supposed he yelled, but he did not hear his own voice. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head to dispel from it the vision, for such visions were ever the beginnings of an enchantment. The sight had been too disturbing. The appeal it had was false, a mirage as thin as a soap-bubble’s casing held over the truth. What he had seen was damnation- the curse of an unending death.

Childermass’ eyes cleared, and he looked back up at the vampire, whose face now wore only a mild frown. Childermass was out of breath, sweating despite the frigid night air, but the creature wasn’t strained by anything.

“Oh, well,” he said calmly. “It’s not really up to you. When I want something…

_...I get it.”_

The vampire was suddenly closer, without having seemed to take a single step; his lips were close enough to kiss, red eyes large enough to eclipse the moon, and Childermass now saw that his pupils bled from their beds, forming uneven rivulets of inky stains in the flat red cushion of the iris. His breath smelled of decay, and Childermass watched as his jaw parted entirely, his lips peeled back from his gums so the wet predator’s fangs were all that could be seen- fangs that were coming closer still, coming for his neck…

Childermass threw a hand up before his face and, entirely by circumstance, it was the one still clutching the wooden cross he had taken from Segundus’ bed. His eyes squeezed shut in expectation of some kind of impact, and so he did not see what happened next- but he did hear the vampire let out an animal shriek, a sound very much like the wail of a fox or a dying goat. The stench of death departed.

Childermass looked up. The vampire was away again, curled on all fours at the base of a birch tree, his teeth still bared but this time clenched in a snarl. One hand clawed at the fabrics covering his own chest, and as Childermass watched the thing spit on the flagstones, as though he had swallowed something that gave him heartburn.

Against his chest, Segundus suddenly shifted and let out a small moan, his eyes slowly cracking open. He looked up at Childermass for a moment, confused, and then over at the vampire, and Childermass heard him gasp.

“So, you’re afraid of this?” Childermass said spitefully, still holding the wooden cross in the air between them, like it was a ward. Well, it seemed that’s exactly what it was. 

“No, no, no,” Segundus began murmuring, but his eyes were fixed to the demon. Childermass shook him with his free arm, and that brought Segundus back to himself in part, his eyes huge and glistening with icy, unshed tears.

“Stand, now,” Childermass whispered to him. “Back to the house.”

They did this in one great, stuttering motion, for Segundus still seemed almost too weak to support his own weight. Childermass caught him by the waist, but awkwardly, and he dared not drop the cross from its wavering position in the air for the hungry way the vampire looked at them, his red tongue lolling out against his lower lip like a dog’s.

“You stay there, devil,” Childermass said to him in a louder voice, trying to muster up the character of a minister or exorcist, despite the fact that he was sorely uncertain of their safety. His fingers cramped from how tightly he gripped the wood, and as he began to back away (guiding the trembling Segundus) he locked eyes with the beast, whose gaze did not show fear but rather hatred, and above even that incredible desire.

The fog parted at his back like a curtain, and Segundus cried out: “Starecross!” But Childermass did not turn- he continued to take measured steps, watching the vampire’s slowly fading face, until he suddenly closed his red mouth and darted away, scuttling off on all fours into the night, too fast for Childermass to see. It was only then that he turned and ran.

But the house was there, as Segundus had said, and the front door was still ajar from Childermass’ earlier hasty exit. They were inside together in seconds, and Childermass slammed the door shut behind them, bolting it and pulling down the rarely-used bar, a leftover from the place’s madhouse days. 

Segundus fell to his knees on the floor, and Childermass heard him begin to cry. Only when the door was secure did Childermass turn to look at him- he was a fragile thing, strewn out on the floor with shaking limbs and wet cheeks, but there was a terrible amount of the vampire’s illusion in him still. He was very nearly the thing Childermass had seen on the bed of flowers.

“I’m sorry,” Segundus gasped. “I am so, so sorry.”

Childermass grit his teeth, but before he could say anything they were joined by a crowd of people, at the head of which was Honeyfoot, carrying a swinging yellow lantern. Childermass cries hadn’t gone unheard, then- but as always, in company he was swept aside, and he could not reach for Segundus the way he wanted to.

The only thing he was granted was a last, anguished look from Segundus as the man was dragged away to somewhere more ‘comfortable’, and Childermass covered the cut on his wrist with his sleeve and followed far behind, in that last and lowly position where the shadows nipped at his heels.


	11. euthanasia is an excellent and comforting word

After the night’s episode, Segundus was not returned to his room. Instead, everyone gathered in the parlour, candles lit and mouths moving as gradually the tale was told and wards were placed and eyes looked furtively through the cracks in barred windows. Segundus did little of the telling himself- he was deposited on a couch where he curled, wrapped in a heavy blanket, white and listless and clearly suffering another headache (though he did not say so in words). Childermass explained what had happened as well as he could, and with several careful omissions- but it was slow going, for every sentence was met with a flurry of questions and remarks. The night was long and tense, and more than once were strange noises heard from outside- wolves howling, and the wind whispering through the trees in what sounded far too close to a language. Once, there was a great cracking sound, like that of lightning splitting a tree, followed by the chime of falling glass- and these sounds seemed to come from _within_ the house. Purfois and some of the younger men wanted to investigate, but were ultimately dissuaded in the name of not splitting up and weakening their forces. Everyone- that is, everyone except Segundus- expected a supernatural attack to occur at any moment, and braced themselves with makeshift weapons and discussed protective incantations in hushed tones. Childermass put the cross back where it belonged- around the neck of the one who needed it most.

But this assault did not come. It seemed that the bustle and concern of so many people kept the darkness out, for dawn broke without any further sign of the vampire. The sun rose on an ominously clear sky.

Childermass returned to Segundus’ chambers alone once everyone had begun to settle, and breakfast was being made, to fetch him some clothes and collect the garlic. It was there that he found the source of the commotion from the night- both the windows in Segundus’ chambers had been shattered, and shards of the glass littered the floor. The wood separating the panes was similarly crushed, and the curtains had been torn from their fixtures and shredded, leaving gaping holes in the side of the house through which the wind blew.

On Segundus’ pillow there had been placed a single red rose.

In revulsion Childermass started a fire in Segundus’ hearth and threw the flower in. He watched it burn until he was satisfied that it really _had_ burned, and then put the fire out. When he came back down he told the others of the broken windows, but not of the love-token. He knew the message had only been meant for two of them, but even Segundus he did not tell, for perversely the sight had made him something too much like _jealous._

After breakfast- of which Segundus took nothing but tea- the gentlemen of the house began to spread out in separate directions, emboldened by the brilliant yellow sun in the clear sky. Honeyfoot went to the library to research (though even he did not seem to think he would find much) while the remaining servants explored the house and grounds for other signs of damage or mischief (and tracked down Vinculus to update him on the severity of the situation- and send him down to York with some money for food and board, as per Childermass’ request, to keep him away from any trouble). Levy and Purfois went down into Starecross Village and beyond to fetch more ramsons- and the aid of the minister. The most effective weapon, after all, had been the cross. 

Childermass, as always, stayed with Segundus. He was beginning to feel like some kind of dog- surely an ugly mutt, with matted black fur and yellow teeth, hanging about in his owner’s shadow to growl at trespassers and whine when he was left alone. Ridiculous- but he was too tired, and the situation was too dire to feel anything like shame.

Segundus, for his part, fell asleep on the couch in the parlour after everyone had set out. He could have been a character in a painting, but for how gaunt his features had become in the light of day. How long had it been since he had eaten anything of substance? Childermass didn’t remember. 

Childermass had a number of books with distantly relevant titles from the library in the parlour with him- courtesy of Honeyfoot- but just from looking at the spines in the stack he doubted there would be so much as a drop of valuable content in any of them. So instead of cracking one open Childermass reached into his jacket pocket, and pulled from it the cards of Marseilles.

He looked at them for a long moment, and then back over at Segundus, who slept so deeply his chest barely moved. Childermass grit his teeth, and began shuffling the cards. 

_Tell me what will become of him._

_Please, please tell me he will survive._

But of course, he knew better than that. Fate didn’t cater to the wills of men, and the cards didn’t tell pretty lies- only the truth, in however cryptic a form they saw fit. Still, Childermass couldn’t help but pray a little, or at least do something like pray, as he brought each of the cards to his lips before laying them down on the table. When the set was placed- ten in total, two fives stacked atop each other, in the pattern he had always used- he took a deep breath to steady himself, and then he turned over the first of the cards.

 _The Magician._ Childermass scoffed. Willpower, creation, manifestation. Of course, it was Segundus, that much was in the question he had asked. Childermass turned over the second card.

 _Four of Wands._ Happiness and balance, a home. The home made by the will of the Magician- Starecross. Childermass turned over the third card.

 _The Emperor- Reversed._ Cold and unyielding- a tyrant. He showed up on the doorstep of the home the Magician built.

“Tell me something I don’t already know,” Childermass growled, and he turned over the fourth card.

 _The Moon._ Secrets and illusions, the unconscious. Confusion and uncertainty. Childermass thought about this one for a long moment, and then scowled. It surely represented the magic- the false Emperor cast a spell over the Magician to take away his memories and distort his mind, to make him come walking under the Moon. That much had been done to Childermass as well.

He turned over the fifth card, the last in the top row.

 _Seven of Wands._ Perseverance in the face of an ongoing challenge; holding the ground. Childermass frowned at the card’s illustration- a little man on a hill facing down an army, while wearing a pair of mismatched shoes. He supposed this was his first appearance in the story. Well. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

Childermass reached for the next card and then hesitated, bracing himself once more. The first level had established what was, the second would reveal what was to be. He looked over at Segundus for a moment, just to watch him breathe, and then he turned over the sixth card.

 _King of Pentacles- Reversed._ Greed and decadence, exploitation and possession. It wasn’t over, of course, but Childermass did not like the promise of this card. The Emperor would sink his teeth into the Magician again.

Childermass felt a sweat forming on his palms and upper lip. His fingers shook as he turned over the seventh card.

 _Ten of Pentacles-_ Pentacles again? They were an ill sight in this story. This one signified legacy, family- an inheritance. The illustration was that of a tree covered in ripe fruit. A red rose laid on a pillowcase. What was it the vampire had said- what was it the vampire had called Segundus? _Fledgling._ Childermass covered his mouth. Well, it did not say if the inheritance was accepted or not-!

In a rush now, Childermass turned over the eighth card.

 _Two of Swords._ Denial, and a difficult choice lay on the road ahead. Was this card meant for Segundus? It did not seem like he had much choice- no, the more Childermass looked at it the more certain he was that it was for him. If so, then it didn’t matter- all that mattered was what would happen to Segundus, and Childermass did not like what he had been shown so far. He turned over the ninth card.

 _Ten of Swords._ Ruin. Failure. An unforeseen catastrophe. An ultimate and inevitable end.

“No,” Childermass said- the word escaped him without his meaning it to. “No, no, no.”

His vision blurred as he reached for the last card. He could hear his heart in his ears, and feel it in his throat. The world had narrowed down to the surface of the table and nothing more, he could not even see beyond the edges of it.

Childermass turned over the tenth, and final, card.

_Death._

Childermass yelled without hearing his own voice, and flipped the table over, sending the cards scattering across the floor. He stood, for he could not bear to sit, and gripped at his own hair. 

_‘Death’_ in the cards was not, usually, so sinister as its visage would assume- indeed, Childermass had learned, it was rarely so terrible a portent as the _Ten of Swords_ or _The Tower._ It signified ‘ends’, yes, but also ‘beginnings’- its true meaning was that of great change, of _transformation._ Metamorphosis.

Childermass thought he was going to be sick. It was the very worst card he could have drawn.

Childermass collapsed on his knees beside Segundus, burying his face in his chest. He couldn’t bear this. He hadn’t been made strong enough to bear this. For a moment he was sure his heart would burst- it couldn’t be possible for someone to feel this way and yet keep living. He did not have the thoughts or words to express it. He had never felt a grief as strong as this. Before, he would not have even thought it possible- oh, before, before it all, when he had been but a thief and a rogue and black, shadowy thing, the servant of a selfish and pitiful little man, _back then_ he had figured himself a man with a small heart. A man not stirred by an ounce of pity for anything, a man without much feeling, with a heart that beat only to keep his blood moving. He had not believed he could hurt so much.

He had not believed he could _love_ so much.

Under him, Segundus stirred, and Childermass forced himself to sit back, to look at that hopeless face. Segundus’ eyes opened slowly, and when they focused on Childermass he realized he recognized them- these were not the eyes of the Segundus-made-strange, the Magician as lit by the Moon. There was too much gentleness in them. This was the true John Segundus.

“Oh,” Segundus said, and his expression was one of great concern as he tried to pull himself up onto his elbows. “You- you’re crying. What- has something happened…?”

Childermass shook his head, because he couldn’t say it, how could he possibly say it? He took one of Segundus’ cold hands in his own and kissed it, gripping his fingers too tightly, as if something as ephemeral as this could keep Segundus with him forever.

Segundus looked about the room, perhaps surprised to not find himself in bed, and eventually his eyes landed on the turned over table and the fallen cards.

“It is bad news, isn’t it,” Segundus said softly. Childermass shook his head again. All the words were caught in his throat and they tangled together there, forming a painful, searing lump. 

“John,” Segundus continued in a clearer voice. “John, you must do something for me.”

One word freed itself from the tangle and scraped across his tongue: “Anything.”

Segundus bit his lower lip. There was such determination in his eyes- Childermass recognized it from ever so many moments before; he recognized it from the day he had told this man his dreams would not come true.

“I have not been myself,” Segundus said waveringly. “I have not been...in my right mind. I have done and said things I do not…”

His eyes closed as he shuddered, and a single tear fell from his right eye, catching on his cheekbone. Childermass was surely holding his hands so tightly his fingers might break, yet he couldn’t make himself let go.

“I may rescind this request. I may deny I ever asked it- but please, if I do, you must not listen to me. You must promise me you will do as I say _now.”_

“Yes,” Childermass replied, though his voice still was choked and useless. “Yes. I will. I promise.”

Segundus smiled at him, but it was the very weakest kind of smile, and when he blinked a scattering of more tears joined the first in a journey down his face. He raised their joined hands and kissed Childermass’ knuckles, and his lips were cold enough against Childermass’ overheated skin that they burned.

“If I am to become a monster...no.” Segundus took another deep breath, steadying himself. “I must not become a monster.”

“No,” Childermass said, though he wasn’t sure if he was agreeing with Segundus or denying that such a thing was even possible. “No, you wouldn’t-” Segundus hushed him.

“John, you must kill me.”

For a moment, these words wiped everything clean again, and Childermass thought nothing and felt only agony. In an instant he came back to himself, but it felt like far more than an instant.

“No,” Childermass said again, but this time his words were almost a croon- he was begging. “No. No.”

“You promised you would do anything,” Segundus told him, his eyes wide. “Please, I cannot bear the thought of becoming kin to that- that _creature,_ I...it does not need to be painful. I can take the rest of that laudanum all at once, I can simply fall asleep…!”

 _This should never have happened,_ Childermass thought. In a way he had never done before he cursed Fate. He had used to think spitefully of the people who said such things, but she really was unbearably cruel, and terribly unfair, wasn’t she? Was she laughing at them now? Laughing at Childermass, who was having everything that mattered- the only truly good thing he had ever had or done- taken away from him so slowly and cruelly? Was this penance for how he had lived his life before- if it was, it was unjust, for no matter what Childermass was owed Segundus _did not deserve this._

“Please,” Segundus repeated. “Please, John, if you do not help me I will become...God, I cannot even think of it…”

He sounded like his heart was breaking. Childermass had thought he couldn’t withstand that earlier pain, and yet this was a weight even more terrible stacked upon it. He did not understand how he could still be here- how the world could still be here, when such horrible words had been said in it. If the sun dared to keep shining it too was a callous thing.

“Alright,” Childermass said, and his voice scraped against his throat on the way out, for the force it took to say such a thing was like pushing a boulder uphill. “I promise. If you...if there is no hope of your recovery, then I will...end it.”

“Thank you,” Segundus said softly, and he fell back against the couch cushion with a sigh of tremendous relief. “Thank you so much.”

For a while they both sat there, reeling in the aftermath of their own words. Segundus’ breathing slowly eased, and his tears let up- it seemed like perhaps he was too weak to cry for very long. Childermass didn’t know how long he could cry for. He had never had a chance to find out.

“Could you get me some water?” Segundus asked quietly.

“Of course,” Childermass replied, overeager to agree to this request, as the previous had been so terrible.

“And some paper and ink, please.” Segundus added.

“Yes...what for?”

Segundus looked over at him and smiled a tiny, exhausted smile.

“I am going to write my will,” he said.

…

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Childermass cleaned up his mess and put the cards away- he didn’t bother to try reading them again, in case he had made some kind of mistake; he didn’t think he could bear seeing that misfortune laid out once more. Segundus left the parlour only to dress himself and make use of facilities; he did not eat or sleep. His time was occupied with the sheets of parchment lain out before him- but even that Childermass couldn’t bring himself to look at. It seemed disrespectful to peer at another man’s dying wishes while he made them, and so they had little conversation. All the words that needed to be said had been said already.

Midway through the afternoon Levy and Purfois returned with a veritable blockade of ramsons and crosses from the minister and some of his kinder disciples- whatever they had said to explain the unusual request they did not mention, and Childermass did not ask. The sight of these things represented a hollow, conflicted kind of hope, one that he could not stomach easily. 

At tea time Segundus sent for Charles, and gave him the final draft of his writings, folded inside a plain white envelope.

“Please have this certified at the townhouse,” Segundus told him pleasantly. There was a moment of pained silence after these words as everyone realized what the envelope must contain, and Childermass looked away, unable to meet anyone’s eyes.

“But sir,” Charles began, but whatever he intended to say, he couldn’t finish.

“It is just in case,” Segundus told them all, and he wrapped himself more securely in his blanket. Surely he looked small and broken to everyone there- like a deer with an arrow in its leg. “There’s no need to look so frightened.”

“Of course,” Hadley-Bright replied. “It won’t come to that.”

...but even he did not sound quite so confident as he usually did.

Dinner was a somber affair. Everyone made their reports, and none of those reports were encouraging. Honeyfoot (as Childermass expected) had not made any progress with the meagre contents of their tiny library, nor with cudgling his brain for lost childhood memories. He proposed contacting his old home’s parish to find the name of the Transylvanian woman he had known, so perhaps he could write to her or her family for advice- but these words fell flat on everyone’s ears. The weight of the truth dragged them down too much: even if through some wild detective work Honeyfoot was able to track down this woman, _even if she had something useful to say,_ the correspondence would take time.

Likely, too much time.

There had been no great disturbances on the grounds (this much was reported by Hadley-Bright and the servants) but the instances of strange natural corruptions had only increased; while trees down in the village and beyond were beginning to bud, and flowers and ferns grew in the Northern forests, no such natural spring progression was marked at Starecross proper. The bodies of swollen, black-and-green shelled beetles littered the gardens, and the roots of the trees in the woods were stained with rat shit and tufts of fur. Precautions against these things had not done much.

By the time dessert was served, no one had anything left to say. The food was bitter, for what they swallowed alongside it was their words, and it left their throats dry. The silence was almost painful- until Segundus (who sipped bravely at a cup of tea with cream and honey, instead of eating) broke it.

“Tonight I should like to stay in the parlour,” he said. “And, more importantly…”

“You needn’t stay in the _parlour,_ man,” Purfois interrupted. “I’m sure a room can be made up for you _somewhere!”_

Segundus shook his head. He was smiling, but there was a grim determination in his eyes.

“I don’t think there will be much sleep tonight,” he said. “Of course...it’s just a feeling I have.”

No one protested anymore. Everyone knew how accurate Segundus’ ‘feelings’ could be. Childermass wondered for the first time what the magic of the vampire looked like to him- did it bloom in the shape of little flowers, the way he saw his own magic, or as darkly coloured shifts of shadow and light, the way he claimed to see Childermass’? Childermass could only assume it was something much, much worse. Another horror for him to contend with- one that no one else could see.

 _“More importantly,”_ Segundus continued pointedly, “I believe I will need to be...inhibited in some way. I am likely to sleepwalk again, and I...I may make myself troublesome.”

“Wouldn’t it be better if you’re unbound?” Honeyfoot asked. “That way, you will be able to defend yourself.”

Segundus flushed faintly at these words and turned aside, looking down at his own hands in what was obviously shame.

“Given the opportunity, I do not think I will defend myself,” he said softly. Something in Childermass’ stomach lurched, and he stood, realizing suddenly that he needed to get out of this room, needed to be away from these people. He couldn’t handle the hot, acrid weight of the air.

“I’ll go find something,” he said, without knowing where he might find ‘something’ and did not wait to be excused. The silence of the corridor beyond, though, was little relief. There was a battle coming- he could feel it, just as Segundus did. Running away with his tail between his legs because he couldn’t stand watching Segundus _lose himself_ wasn’t going to win it...and he wanted to win. He wanted desperately to win, even if the cards had told him otherwise. If he was the _Seven of Wands,_ then he wasn’t going to give up yet.

That evening, before the sun set, it was decided that no one was going to bed that night. The house was secured- all windows closed and barred, all doors locked. The men situated themselves in the parlour, which had been transformed into a veritable fortress- garlic lined the sill of every window as well as the single door that led in from the hall. Everyone had spells on their lips and crosses about their necks, secured tightly by leather and twine.

Segundus was bound to the couch. Childermass had found in a basement closet (not far from the Christmas decorations) a box containing the few supplies left over from Starecross’ time as a madhouse- including a bit of soft rope, and a strait-waistcoat.

 _“Perfect,”_ Segundus said at the sight of it, but everyone else looked away as Childermass bound Segundus’ too-thin arms to his chest. The bones in his wrists jutted out like the joints of a bat or bird, and even though Segundus had asked for it, Childermass felt like he was doing something wrong.

“It’s alright,” Segundus said to him quietly, perhaps sensing the feelings coming off of him. “It’s much better this way. But...I’m afraid the rest will be up to you.”

Childermass wanted to kiss him, then, to burn away the taste of those painful-sounding words, but he was too aware of the other men in the room. He cinched shut the straps on the jacket without saying anything more, and similarly tied Segundus’ ankles together with a thick strip of rope, and helped him lie back on the couch. Segundus’ cheeks coloured faintly at the indignity, but still he wore that brave little smile, an attempt at displaying normalcy in a decidedly abnormal situation. Childermass took the blanket he had been wearing and lay it over him, pulling it all the way up to his chin, so that by all appearances he seemed simply to be resting.

“Thank you,” Segundus said and, though he would have liked to do more, Childermass bowed his head in acknowledgement and went to stand by one of the windows. By the cracks of light peeking under the curtains, he could tell that the sun had nearly set outside. 

The first hour of the night was very tense. Conversation was sparse, and muscles stiffened at every errant noise the house made. Hadley-Bright paced the floor until Purfois demanded he stop, and Honeyfoot went about adjusting the flowers on the windowsills, or even straightening the lamps they had laid out to see by, just for something to do with his hands. Segundus was very quiet on the couch, though whenever Childermass looked over his eyes were still open.

But as time passed the tension in the room began to dissipate- of course, it naturally would. When no supernatural occurrences or unusual sounds penetrated the dull of the night the men settled down, seating themselves and beginning modest conversations that gradually became more boisterous as the dark hours wore on. By midnight, it almost seemed like nothing was amiss- some had lit cigars or pipes, and Purfois had pulled a bottle of old brandy and some glasses from one of the cupboards and was passing them out. The scene was almost precisely that of an unusual gentleman’s club run a little late into the night- only the occasional furtive glance towards the window, or awkward dip in conversation, betrayed their other purpose. 

Childermass did not himself indulge in the revelry- but then, he was hardly expected to. He sat in the shadows with his own pipe, watching the windows and watching Segundus, who had at first offered polite (if somewhat awkward) smiles to the conversation from his tightly wrapped position on the couch- but those, over time, had faded. He shifted somewhat restlessly now, his brow furrowing and his eyes drifting closed, clearly wishing to sleep but trying not to. Like everything about Segundus these days, it was a pitiful sight.

By the time the witching hour found its way onto the face of the clock, the atmosphere of the room was quite stifling. Eyes were prickling, heads were nodding, and the air smelled of pipesmoke. Some of the lamps had gone out, but no one had bothered to relight them.

Childermass closed his eyes a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose to ease the tension behind his eyes, and then something changed.

For a moment, he could not say exactly what- a little prickle of alarm reached his senses with no known origin. He looked up- no one else seemed to have noticed- but nothing in the room was any different from how it had been just moments ago. 

Then he realized- the night outside had fallen silent.

All of the regular sounds of the world- the wind stirring the trees, the rustlings of living things in the underbrush, even the distant creakings of the walls in other wings of Starecross House- were absent. The air was still in a way it never was, as though the parlour had been encased in a bubble of reality all its own. Childermass stood, one hand finding the wooden cross at his neck on instinct, and the other men looked over at him in surprise.

On the bed, Segundus let out a low moan, his eyes closed and his back arched. The sound cut its way through the quiet of the room like a knife.

“Look out!” Childermass shouted, and at the same moment the glass in the windows rattled, the sound deafening in the silence. Everyone was on their feet now, voices filling the air, hands brandishing crosses. The entire outer wall shook, and so did the door to the parlour, and the flowers that lined them trembled in their vases. The pressure in the air was immense- it felt like a giant hand had cupped the little room that had become the universe and was squeezing it, trying to break it like the shell of a bug. Childermass gripped the cross in his hands until his knuckles were white, hissing magic from between his teeth, spells to keep the undesirable away, even if he knew not whether they worked...God, it went on, it felt like his eardrums were going to explode-!

Just as suddenly as it had come, the clenching silence vanished, and the night returned. Childermass found himself out of breath, and he heard this feeling echoed about the room. Childermass looked over at the couch- Segundus’ eyes were still closed, but he too breathed heavily in his sleep.

“Ha,” Hadley-Bright gasped. “Can’t get in here, can you, you villa-”

He was interrupted by another voice- a voice that surely came from outside, and yet sounded like its origin was somewhere inside Childermass’ head. It was a hiss and a scream, with an unmistakable accent, and the words vibrated inside Childermass’ skull.

 _“Come,”_ said the voice. _“Come out to me.”_

Segundus shifted on the couch, curling into his body so that the blanket fell into a puddle beside him, exposing the devices that tied him to himself. His brow was furrowed in frustration and he writhed like he was in pain, tiny whimpers passing his lips as he pulled on the restraints of the waistcoat- a thing that had been designed for precisely such moments. Childermass approached him carefully, intending to hold him still so he could not hurt himself, but he did not cross the room in time.

 _“COME,”_ came the voice again, and Segundus’ head snapped back, his eyes opening wide. His pupils were glowing. Before Childermass’ eyes, the waistcoat contorted and split, rising up from itself- and then it was clear that it wasn’t a waistcoat at all anymore, but rather a flock of white summer butterflies that scattered across the room. With a kick of Segundus’ legs, the rope binding them was no longer rope, but daisies, whose long green stems cracked and fell to the ground. Similarly, both of the silver bells Childermass had charmed- Segundus’ and his own- burst into life, becoming silvery-feathered sparrows that darted into the darkness of the corridor beyond, almost too fast to see. The cross about Segundus’ neck did not change- but the thread that held it there burned, and it fell to the floor with a weighty clunk.

“How is it _doing_ this?” Levy yelled, brandishing his cross at the butterflies, and Childermass realized with horror that he knew.

“It isn’t the vampire’s magic,” he called. “It’s _Segundus’!”_

Of course it must be. Butterflies and flowers! But in a waking state Segundus was not so powerful as this- Childermass had never seen him do transfiguration without an apparatus, and certainly not on so great a scale- it was a kind of magic he particularly struggled with, for it gave him the worst kinds of headaches. 

...he probably wasn’t bothered by headaches now.

Segundus stood, his undershirt hanging loosely from his sickly frame, and Childermass flung himself forward- a bid to grab him, pin him down, keep him there. Segundus turned, and their eyes met for just an instant- in the eerie light of his iris, Childermass saw no recognition.

Segundus flicked his wrist in Childermass’ direction, and suddenly he was being flung back, shot through the air like a stone from a child’s catapult. His back hit the far wall and he slid to the ground, feeling a sharp pain in his chest as all the wind was knocked from his lungs. As he struggled to stand, he watched the same fates befall the rest- Hadley-Bright tried to take Segundus by the arm, and he was thrown into the table the brandy had been set upon, the glasses breaking under his body. Levy and Purfois were next, in tandem, the former slammed against a window and the latter back into the couch where Segundus himself had been lying. No one could even get close to him. Honeyfoot was the last to try and, without any regard for his more feeble older friend, Segundus set him sprawling into the bookshelf. On this last impact, Childermass was certain he heard something _crack._

Childermass struggled to his feet and ran past his fallen compatriots, stumbling briefly on his own legs (something in his left knee hurt- but that didn’t matter, all that mattered was Segundus) over the flowers that lined the doorway, following Segundus’ pale figure in its rapid journey down the hall to the front door.

Said front door had been locked, bolted, and barred, but still it burst open as Segundus approached, the wood cracking in places from the strain. Segundus stepped lightly out into the night- how quickly he moved, almost like he was floating- and Childermass dove after him.

“Wait, John!” he yelled. “You don’t want this-”

Segundus turned, and for a wild moment Childermass thought he might have been heard- but instead of answering Segundus raised one hand, pointing with two fingers at Childermass’ chest.

Childermass braced himself, fully expecting to be flung backwards again, but instead he tripped- something had snagged at his ankle. He looked down, and only had time to see that the offending object was a tendril of flowering vine before the ground beneath him exploded with the growth of new greenery. The vine wrapped his legs in seconds, gripping as tightly as a vice, and more of the plant reached up to embrace his arms, his chest, his throat. Though he struggled, he could not break free- the plant clenched around him like a muscle, as strong as steel, and each time he moved it only wound tighter. There were thorns as well as flowers on its stem.

“John,” Childermass hissed again, this time through clenched teeth. _“Please.”_

Segundus looked at him, blinking slowly, and for a moment his brow furrowed in something like confusion- _that’s it, wake up, it's not too late-_ but then his face emptied again.

Suddenly, they were not alone.

The shape of the moonlight changed, like an optical illusion revealing itself, and Childermass saw the vampire again. He was standing next to Segundus, his lips peeled back in a smirk that exposed the edges of his fangs.

 _“Bien joué, mon cher,”_ he said in a voice as cold as ice, and then he wrapped his arms around Segundus’ neck and waist, pulling him into a passionate kiss. Childermass started struggling again, and thankfully this time the vines only held him tight without bringing him closer to asphyxiation- likely because, disgustingly, Segundus was _distracted._

The vampire’s clawed fingers groped with all the greed of a lecher down Segundus’ body, squeezing his waist and clutching his ass. When he drew his red lips away a string of saliva connected his outstretched tongue to Segundus’ mouth, and Segundus’ head fell back, baring the line of his white throat. His eyes had fallen closed again- once more, he was deeply sleeping.

“He is so pretty like this,” the vampire hissed, his nails dragging up Segundus’ back, leaving red welts there before his undershirt fell to cover them again. “Don’t you think so? Do you ever have him while he is sleeping? I have already, and I think I will do so again tonight-”

Childermass _screamed,_ a sound of such rage it could never have been put into words, and his struggling resumed anew. He felt his own spit fleck across his chin, and sweat was gathering across his chest and under his arms from the effort, but the vines held tight. He felt blood running over his flesh, hot and sticky, but he did not feel the cuts that caused it. The vampire laughed at him, and the sound was as harsh and inhuman as the meeting of bullets and armour.

“By the way,” the vampire said when Childermass could scream no more, licking a long stripe up the side of Segundus’ neck, “I rescind my former offer. You have a saying in England- two is company, but three is a crowd. Frankly, I am not so interested.”

He smiled brightly, all of his teeth on display.

“I have no idea what he sees in you.”

Then his jaw opened wide, too wide, and the peaks of those fangs sank into the flesh of Segundus’ throat.

A blink- a shift in the moon- and they were both gone. Childermass was alone in the night, still writhing against the constraints of his own strait-waistcoat. The afterimage of that horrible sight was burned into his eyes, and he clung to it, irrationally believing that if he did so perhaps he could cling to Segundus too- but the moments dragged on, and with them his hope faded. The air was empty of any vicious magic- they really were gone. Segundus was gone.

No. Segundus had been _taken._

“Christ, man,” said a voice, and Childermass recognized it as Purfois, who cut him from the rapidly weakening vines with a pocketknife. “You’re covered in blood.”

Childermass grunted, not caring in the slightest for the thorn-scratches he did not feel (what were a few more scars?) and turned on his heel to march back into the house. Passing the parlour, he heard a few shouts-

“Quick, fetch someone, Mr. Honeyfoot is injured-”

“But its the middle of the night-”

“Childermass- Mr. Childermass! What happened out there?”

...but he ignored them all. He climbed the staircase in a few bounds and went to Segundus’ empty rooms, plucking his silver basin from the wall once more. He used some water still left in the ewer by his bedside, and began casting the finding spell. Divisions upon divisions, glittering lines formed in the surface of the water, which represented the surface of the world.

The results were inconsistent. On his first try, he ‘found’ Segundus in the Starecross gardens- but once he selected this quarter and scoured it, Segundus’ little light was gone. Frustrated, he began again, and this time the light appeared in Starecross Village- but, once more, this changed as soon as he tried to narrow it down. Somehow, the vampire was foiling him. Were they really jumping back and forth across the map, chasing little changes in the shape of light and shadow, or was it some illusion? Was Segundus himself (unconsciously, unwillingly) using magic to throw Childermass off his scent?

With shaking hands Childermass removed the cross from around his neck and laid it flat across his open palm, trying another spell- this one to transform the cross into a compass, with Segundus as its pole. The magic slipped from his lips with ease, but when the apparatus began to move it only spun in circles, failing to settle on any direction. Childermass cursed under his breath.

It was difficult to think straight over the tight anxiety in his chest. It was difficult to see over the images that rose behind his eyes- visions of red lines scored into white flesh, of glowing eyes and a wet tongue, violation of the worst kind. A violation that had already happened, perhaps many times.

_How could he not have known?_

Childermass shoved the cross back around his neck with a snarl. This was useless. He needed to _move._

He ran back down the stairs, stopping only briefly in the parlour to snatch a handful of the ramsons, still ignoring the wide eyes that found him there, and ran out through Starecross’ broken front door- into the empty night once more.

He barely knew where he was going. Trying to make direction bend to his will had done nothing, so Childermass merely plunged blindly into the darkest parts of the night, following the blackest shadows and the thickest patches of mist. He called Segundus’ name, though he was never given a response. 

He continued to run even when heat took over his body, feverish sweat running down his back and stinging the shallow cuts in his skin, he ran even when he began to taste blood in the back of his throat from the exertion. He had endured worse before- as a child, at sea. Time, just like direction, stopped having any true meaning. The things that passed before Childermass’ eyes were trees, and clouds, and long expanses of dark moor, but these meant nothing to him if they were empty. 

Now and then images would penetrate his focus- something other than what was before his eyes would rise up inside them, and his senses would be consumed with sickening suggestions. Red blood dripping from holes in a white throat. Grasping hands with long claws- hands that were not so much hands as _paws,_ huge and covered in thick black fur- _was this what the thing really looked like?_ Ribs jutting forward from a chest that was too slender. A bloody tongue licking a single tear from a cold cheek-

_-that bastard-_

-a lewd, hungry moan that reverberated coldly in his ears. Childermass saw a cat with a bird in its mouth.

Childermass knew these thoughts were not entirely his own- they were messages, sent to him by some black magic, through the connection forged by the mark on his wrist- a mark that, Childermass realized when he looked down upon it, had split wide open again and was dripping blood ceaselessly, the wound failing to clot and still the way a natural one would. The vampire was taunting him. Bile rose in the back of Childermass’ throat, and he spat it on the ground.

He ran, and ran, and ran, and he found nothing.

The visions ceased after what felt like an eternity- they trickled out, losing their potency, until all that Childermass saw was the real world before him. He realized vaguely that the night sky had changed colour- it was becoming lighter at the edge, promising a clear sunrise. Childermass’ senses had gone cold. He could not feel any magic- even the mania that had possessed him throughout the night was fading. He could tell his body was exhausted, and he knew he was not as young as he had been.

In a moment of lucidity, Childermass pulled the cross from his neck and attempted the compass spell again, though the words it took to be complete hurt his throat on the way out. This time, the long end of the cross did not spin aimlessly around his hand- it swung left, then right, and then settled in a direction off of Childermass’ left shoulder, through the copse of trees where he then found himself standing. Childermass would have begun running again, but there was no true path to run upon, so his progress was slowed as he clawed his way between the tightly pressed trunks, using his free hand to ward branches away from his eyes.

In little time, however, the trees cleared, and Childermass found himself standing in a recognizable place- the graveyard kept behind the church in Starecross Village. The headstones were not wildly numerous, but many were very old, and their varied shapes cast eerie shadows upon the ground in the light of the sunrise which now peeked its head over the edge of the East.

Childermass saw Segundus, then.

He had found him at last.

Segundus was standing by one of the newer headstones, facing away from the light. Even though Childermass could not see his face, he recognized him instantly. Strangely, Segundus was not alone- he was surrounded by a conspiracy of ravens, who picked at the ground and groomed themselves on the stones, turning their heads this way and that. As Childermass approached, his breath ragged in his chest, some pinned him with their beady black eyes, curious and hard- but Childermass was not afraid of them. They were good omens here, all things considered.

“John!” Childermass called, and amazingly, Segundus turned. Childermass saw now that he was not wearing the plain white clothes he had been at the start of the night- he was not wearing anything Childermass had seen him wear before. His clothes were merely an undershirt, a loose pair of trousers, and thin stockings, but all made from a silky black material that split in some places into revealing, elaborate lace. 

“John,” Childermass repeated, the word almost a sob. A wind blew, a wind as cold as winter, and as Childermass watched Segundus lifted one hand towards him, reaching with pale fingertips- and then his head tipped back and he fell to the ground, the gravestone narrowly missing his temple. At the sound of his body striking the earth the ravens took flight, flying West into the remaining night as one, calling out alarm as they did so.

Childermass swore, and closed the meagre remaining distance between them in a few bounds, crouching beside Segundus to gather him into his arms. He was freezing to the touch- freezing, but solid! He was not an illusion. Childermass let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, and one hand found its way to Segundus’ chest, pressing flat against his left breast in desperation.

...there was a heartbeat.

 _Thank God,_ Childermass thought dizzily (unable to say so out loud) and he kissed Segundus’ cheek and temple, over and over, still listening to that slow, steady rhythm under his palm. Segundus did not wake, lying as still and limp as a doll, but Childermass didn’t have the energy to care. He was too out of himself to think clearly about anything- his mind spun with fields of emotion, but very few thoughts. Every pulse of the organ under his palm sent spikes of feverish joy and guilt both through his own heart, and in a way he could not entirely believe what was before him. Though he had not given up his wild chase in the night, his failure had begun to weigh down on him. Underneath his desperation, he realized he had begun to think Segundus was lost.

Childermass kissed Segundus’ icy forehead once more and then pulled back, checking his figure for wounds. The lacy black nightshirt had a high collar, but Childermass easily pulled it down- this time, there was no blood, only dull purple bruises where the vampire’s teeth had doubtlessly gone in and out. Childermass grit his teeth, but left it. There was nothing he could do now.

The rest of Segundus was surprisingly unmarked. The scratches on his chest (that Childermass had seen being done- in person and in vision) were long gone, with no sign remaining that they had ever been there at all. His skin really was as white and flawless as a first snowfall, and all over his bones could be seen beneath it.

Though he wasn’t entirely without colour. Through Segundus’ slack lips Childermass could see his teeth were stained with blood. A drop of the stuff- so red it almost looked unreal- dripped from the corner of his mouth and down his cheek, and Childermass tried to wipe it away with his thumb, but only succeeded in smearing it around, turning the line into a sticky pink stain.

 _Something_ was poking out from under Segundus’ upper lip- Childermass saw it now. Had _something_ been placed inside his mouth? With a frown, Childermass peeled his lip back, trying to see, still unsuspecting, what in the world could have-

-he saw, but it took his mind several seconds to understand. _Something_ was bubbling in his gut, and it was revulsion and horror and despair all at once. He knew he should not be surprised- he knew he was a fool to feel this way- after all, he had already seen it, the last card had been _Death._

Segundus’ eye teeth had changed- their ordinary shape had been replaced by a slender pair of fangs, as sharp and little as a kitten’s. 

Childermass looked away and cradled Segundus’ sleeping figure close under his chin, feeling again for that soft, steady heartbeat. It was still there. He wasn’t dead yet.

No, he wasn’t dead yet- but Childermass had made him a promise, hadn’t he?

The headstones of the graves were watching him.

 _Honour it,_ they told him.

But he could not.


	12. knowledge is stronger than memory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally (in more ways than one)!

It did not take long before the chill of the wind crept beneath Childermass’ clothes, before the toll of the night began to press itself insistently into all of the little aches and pains across his body. He came to himself steadily, like a man waking from a dream, and he realized dully that if he couldn’t help Segundus in the way he had asked for (no, not yet- but oh, possibly never!) he needed at least to remove him from the cold ground. So, though it strained his exhausted body to do so, he lifted the sleeping Segundus in his arms (one around his back and the other under his knees) and proceeded to carry him between the headstones, out into the rising light of morning. Segundus was not heavy. Or rather, perhaps, he was not heavy anymore. He felt hollow, like a figure made of porcelain instead of muscle and bone.

What a rational, clear morning it seemed- nothing like the night behind it. The strange clothes Segundus wore (clothes of the softest, finest silk, Childermass could feel beneath his palms) were the only remnants of that night, and they fluttered contrarily in the wind, and though Segundus must have been frozen where they revealed his skin there were no signs of gooseflesh.

Childermass did not think to take Segundus anywhere but home. His mind was stupored, and it seemed the most he could manage to put one foot in front of the other until the village was behind them and the gates of the house were welcoming them back again. They did not meet anyone on the road- thank God, for Childermass would have had nothing to say to explain himself.

Segundus woke in his arms on the path towards the front door- he gasped, shivering, and when Childermass looked his eyes opened, the muscles in his neck straining to raise his head from Childermass’ shoulder.

“Starecross,” he said softly, looking about himself, and Childermass nodded. Segundus smiled a tiny, cold smile, one that did not reveal his teeth, and Childermass let him down gently. He did not seem to mind the feeling of his nearly bare feet on the cold flagstones.

“What are you going to do now?” Segundus asked him. He still stood close, his arms wrapped loosely about Childermass’ neck, in a position far too intimate to not be considered as such by onlookers. Somehow, Childermass didn’t care.

“I don’t know,” he replied, and he was entirely honest. Segundus hummed softly, a very tiny sound, and he leaned forward like he intended to kiss Childermass’ cheek- an inadvisable action in so open a setting- but instead he licked it, a light, cool flick of his tongue.

Segundus let him go and led the way to the front door- he walked on tiptoe, Childermass distantly observed, as though it hurt his heels to touch the ground. Opening the front door unleashed a maelstrom- the entire house was in a terrible frenzy, and upon discovering the return of the master it only became moreso. The shouting and the questions and the wide, searching eyes were almost too much, and it seemed this was so for Segundus too, for he shrank away from their attentions and covered his face like his head hurt. This was quite enough to have him ushered into the parlour again and sat down, offered blankets and hot tea and receiving these things even when he did not accept. Surprisingly, Childermass was given similar treatment- but perhaps it was simply his frightening appearance that made it so. He caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection of a window- he was a wreck, bloodied and dark-eyed, his hair loose from its tie and tangled about his head. He was filthy. There was a particularly nasty scratch across his cheek, one that he had forgotten about- and then he wondered what Segundus had thought of the flavour of his blood.

Childermass too was given a cup of tea, and he found when he took a sip that it helped immensely, and he was able to offer thanks in words instead of simply blank stares. Thankfully, people seemed to realize he was not yet in a state to recount the events of the night (though in honesty, he was not sure if he would ever be able to do that) and so the clamour of voices fell into speculation, into calls for more aid, and for a moment Childermass thought he might get away without being spoken to directly-

“The doctor should examine you,” said Purfois, breaking that little hope in his usual confident, vaguely aristocratic way. “He’s already here for Honeyfoot- and so is the minister. We had them both come early this morning.”

“Honeyfoot,” Childermass replied, his brain clinging to the only part of those sentences that seemed to really matter.

“Yes- he was injured during, you know- earlier. We thought his arm was broken, but it turns out it was only dislocated- same thing at his age though, really.”

As Purfois spoke the man himself approached, and Childermass couldn’t help but be shaken by his appearance. Honeyfoot looked deflated- he was a man who had always born his age with a certain jovial grace, the lines in his face filled by the expressions that touched it, but now he looked older than he had ever been. The arm in question was done up in a sling, and it was clear it hurt him, for his cheeks were gray instead of red.

“Thank you for finding him,” Honeyfoot said to Childermass. “I don’t think anyone else could have.”

Childermass shook his head- he didn’t deserve that, he hadn’t really found Segundus, he wasn’t a hero- but he did not say this. What he said instead was something that he was sure he could only say to Honeyfoot (to a Honeyfoot that looked like this).

“Segundus,” he murmured lowly. “He...he is changed.”

Honeyfoot blanched, and Childermass looked down into his teacup, unable to face the horror in Honeyfoot’s eyes. It was a horror that felt too much to him like an accusation. After all, he had failed.

“Changed,” Honeyfoot repeated. “How...I suppose it does not matter. I suspected this would…”

...he did not finish, and his shadow shifted away before Childermass’ bowed head, and he was left alone in the crowd again. He took another sip of his tea. He felt numb despite its warmth- paralyzed despite the heat of the risen sun. 

There came much murmuring, and much shifting of bodies throughout the room. Childermass didn’t pay much attention. He watched his teacup drain as he sipped it- there was a flower painted onto the inside of its surface, the form of which was revealed as the liquid dropped. The flower was not a rose. Small mercies.

“...what are you doing?” said Segundus from across the room, and the sound of his voice was enough to make Childermass look up. Charles and Hadley-Bright had sat themselves on either side of Segundus on the couch, locking arms with him in a way far too akin to policemen holding a prisoner- only without any of the certainty, their expressions tense and reluctant. Segundus shifted, but did not try to remove himself, dark eyes darting from face to face in the room. He caught Childermass’ gaze for a moment, watching him with some kind of strange, cold interest, and he only looked away when Honeyfoot- now was standing close to the minister, who had been brought into the room- began to speak.

“We do not intend any harm, sir,” he said gently to Segundus. “This is merely a...precaution.”

“I am really no expert in such matters,” the minister said, more to Honeyfoot than to anyone else. Now that Childermass was paying attention, he could see that the man was holding a wooden cross (one of many), winding its form about his fingers anxiously. “In fact, the idea is hardly proper. You know, this is purely _theoretical…”_

Honeyfoot patted him on the back encouragingly. 

“Just for our peace of mind,” he murmured to the minister, and then he stepped back, in so insisting that the minister step forward, which he did. With a sigh, he raised the cross towards Segundus-

-and only then did Childermass understand what was happening, because Segundus _flinched._

The other men tightened their holds on Segundus, shock as much as fear making their eyes wide. The minister was saying something in Latin- Childermass’ own Latin was too poor to make out many words, but he did catch a few in the jumbled chant, including _‘devil’, ‘tempter’_ , and _‘banish’._

An exorcism.

Childermass stood violently, spilling the last of his tea onto his own hands, but once on his feet he realized he wasn’t sure what he wanted to do. He shouldn’t try to stop them, what if it somehow _worked?_ But how could he watch, Segundus was obviously in _pain._

Segundus pulled back against the men restraining him, leaning away from the cross, but he was too weak to fully escape (he would have likely been too weak even in his best health). His legs raised and curled, contorting in discomfort, but they did not lash out- nor did he make any attempt to use magic, like he had the night before. His eyes were wide and he breathed through his nose quite harshly, his chest heaving with each inhale. His reaction was clearly horrifying to all the men in the room, but it was nothing in comparison to what he did next-

-the minister, speaking louder and moving closer with each verse, emboldened by the frightening display of his subject, brought the cross close to Segundus’ pale face. Segundus, unable to pull any further away, instead suddenly bared his teeth in a _snarl,_ snapping like a wild animal at the minister’s fingers.

Everyone saw the length and shape of those slender predator’s fangs. Everyone saw the contortion of _rage_ upon that usually mild-tempered face- and as the minister pulled away in shock, everyone heard Segundus let out a tiny, frigid laugh.

In a flash of bravery that left Childermass surprised (and later, impressed) the minister recovered, his arm shooting forward once more to press the cross to Segundus’ forehead. Segundus _shrieked,_ a sound that more closely resembled the night-cry of a fox or wildcat than it did a human man wrenching itself from his lungs, and he spasmed so mightily he nearly escaped his bonds- but the younger, stronger men holding him had lost the uncertainty and discomfort in their faces, replacing it with a miserable kind of resolve. They had seen, too.

The scream slowly died into a keen, and then a whimper, until over it the minister’s own tremulous voice could be heard, finishing the Latin phrases. Segundus slowly went limp, the cords in his neck going lax and his chest falling still until on the last word of the chant he could have been sleeping once more. Slowly the minister backed away, and as he did so Childermass saw curls of pale smoke rise from the wood of the cross, catching in the orange light that came through the window. 

On Segundus’ forehead, the place where the symbol had been pressed left an imprint- his white skin had been burned red in two thick, precise, intersecting lines. Proof beyond proof that there was more than superstition occurring here.

Everyone stared dumbfounded at the sight- Hadley-Bright and Charles released Segundus slowly, backing away from the couch- but Childermass was spurred into action, closing the distance between himself and that pathetic, lonely figure, cradling his head to examine the wound.

“Is he...are they…” he did not know what he meant to say. He lifted Segundus’ upper lip desperately, almost unthinkingly praying that things would be different- but they were not. Segundus still had his fangs. 

Honeyfoot was thanking the minister somewhere in the distance, his voice barely penetrating the fog in Childermass’ brain, and Childermass turned to see the minister making his leave. He looked shaken, and drained- as though through the ritual, Segundus had taken something from him, pulling his vitality out through his arm. Perhaps he had. Who knew? This was black magic beyond anything any of them was adept with.

“You must not tell anyone of what you saw here,” Childermass barked before the minister reached the door. “You must not.”

He locked eyes with the man, and though he received no words in response, he was sure he was understood. The minister bowed his head and backed away, and for a long moment the only sounds in the house were those of his retreating footsteps, the hurried opening and closing of the door. 

Segundus shifted, his eyes fluttering open, and even though it was hard to do so Childermass stepped back. With one frail hand Segundus reached up and gingerly touched the mark on his forehead, looking about the room sullenly. No one said anything to him- perhaps no one could find anything to say.

“Are you done with me?” Segundus asked coldly. His voice sounded harsh, no doubt torn by his earlier screaming. Childermass took another step back. 

“How do you feel?” Honeyfoot said instead of answering, taking Childermass’ place before Segundus. 

“Unwell,” Segundus told him flatly, and then he looked down at Honeyfoot’s bandaged arm, seeming to see it for the first time. “...but you are hurt.”

“Oh,” Honeyfoot replied, flustered. “This is nothing. The doctor said I will be back to myself in a few weeks- oh, and I believe he’s down in the dining room, we should bring him up to look at you.”

_“No,”_ Segundus snapped, and for a second his teeth appeared beneath his white upper lip, and Honeyfoot recoiled slightly. “There’s no need.”

Segundus looked up suddenly, his pupils narrowing to near invisibility in a ray of sunlight coming through the parlour window. In such a light, the usual dark brown of his irises appeared almost red.

“I’m going to my rooms,” he said mildly. “Don’t send for anything.”

He stood somewhat unsteadily, and Honeyfoot made a move as if to take his arm, but lost the courage to do so before actually reaching it.

“You shouldn’t go alone…”

“Oh yes, of course,” Segundus replied, stopping in the parlour entryway to look back over his shoulder, a cool smile touching his lips. “Mr. Childermass can come with me.”

Then he disappeared into the darkness there and, naturally, Childermass followed him. He did not bother trying to offer an explanation to the other men- but then, nor did they ask him for one. The parlour was silent as they left.

Segundus, equally, said nothing to Childermass, nor did he look back. As always, Childermass was reminded of a very long ago time, when he had come to the half-Faerie Starecross with Lady Pole’s finger- the first time he had ever given Segundus even the smallest reason to trust him. Back then too, he had followed Segundus through these strange halls- but back then, they had been holding hands.

Segundus went through his study to the bedroom. The debris from the broken windows had been cleared, but new panels had not yet been installed, and the air within was cold from being exposed to the winds outside. Segundus did not go to the bed, instead leaning on the bare windowsill, looking out into the gardens where the changing sun could be seen affecting the sky. Through gaps in his bizarre nightwear, Childermass saw Segundus’ shoulder blades rise under his skin.

“It’s cold in here,” Childermass said.

“I don’t mind.” Segundus replied.

Childermass looked down at the floor, leaning back against the doorway to the bedroom. None of this felt right. Since when had anything felt right? He rubbed his eyes. He knew was exhausted; he could not remember the last time he had slept. But to sleep was to dream, and more importantly to leave Segundus alone-

-to dream?

“You can ignore what I said before,” Segundus said, interrupting the line of Childermass’ thoughts. “I don’t want it anymore.”

It took Childermass a long moment to remember what this meant, and when he did the pit of his stomach soured. When he looked up, he found Segundus had turned to watch him, and he shook his head.

“I made a promise,” he murmured.

“But you don’t want to,” Segundus continued. “Anyone could see that.”

“It’s not about what I want.”

Segundus’ nostrils flared, and slowly he left the windowsill, approaching Childermass carefully on his still-bare feet. Childermass let him. 

When close, Segundus touched Childermass’ jaw with cold fingers, running through the hair there gently. The red cross on his forehead hadn’t faded in the slightest- and now Childermass could see that some of its colour came from blood that had pooled in his pores, pulled from them like sweat. Segundus kissed the side of Childermass’ mouth.

“I don’t care what he wants,” he whispered. “I think I hate him. But I love you, John- I love you and I want you to come with me.”

He wrapped his arms slowly about Childermass’ chest, and again, Childermass let him. The smell of Segundus’ hair was familiar- the same as it always had been. In a way, that scent was more terrible than anything else, for it was the first of these sensations that brought something hot behind Childermass’ stinging eyes.

“I wouldn’t hurt you,” Segundus continued. His breath was cold on Childermass’ throat. “Not like he hurts me. So, please…”

Childermass felt something settle against his jugular- two small, narrow points of pressure. He swallowed, and a cold tongue pressed beneath them, thirsty in preparation for what was to come.

But Childermass did not let him do this.

“Stop,” he murmured. He pulled Segundus’ head away gently, watching those monstrous teeth retreat back behind his lips. For a moment, Segundus looked hurt- and so he looked like himself again. Childermass kissed him chastely, just so he didn’t have to look at it, and Segundus’ weak fingers clutched the fabric of his shirt, afraid to let go.

“I am going to try one more thing,” Childermass told him. The words had a finality to them that made the air feel bitter. “I will try to save you one more time. And if I cannot, I will do as you asked.”

Segundus shook his head, his eyes narrowing.

“No,” he hissed, his fangs clicking against his bottom (human) teeth. “No, I don’t want you to-”

He was interrupted by a knock on the study door and, instinctively, their bodies separated as it was opened. Segundus leaned against the far wall, his head rolled back and one hand clutching at his chest as though in pain. Childermass clenched his jaw and then released it, turning into the study to greet the newcomers with the best of his minimal ability- newcomers who turned out to be Levy and Purfois.

“We realized it was probably best if you weren’t alone,” Levy said. He looked like a man who intended something, but wasn’t sure what. Childermass shook his head.

“It’s alright,” he said. “There’s something I need to do.”

Levy and Purfois parted to let him through, but before Childermass was out the door the latter spoke:

“...what is it? Have you some- some idea?”

Childermass turned back.

“We’ve done everything we can,” he said dully.“I’m going to find someone who can do more. And sirs-”

They both looked at him expectantly. 

“...watch him closely, but do not believe anything he says.”

The somber, determined expressions on their faces were the last reassurances Childermass received, and he did not ask for any more. His mind moved ahead of his body, preparing for what was to come next- tracing the lines of a long-ago learned spell, a spell he had only ever had use for once, but whose form he still summoned to mind. A surprisingly simple spell.

Without running into anyone else, Childermass was able to make it to his own room, where he closed and bolted the door. It was still dark within, his curtains closed. The air smelled faintly dusty, by way of a room not visited in a long time. 

Childermass lay down on the bed, not even undressing enough to remove his boots, and found he had in one pocket the cross he had used to find Segundus. He looked at it in the semi-dark for a moment and then, with a sigh, put it back around his neck and closed his eyes. 

The sinking sensation was instantaneous. He did not think he could open those eyes again if he wanted to- which was fine, because he _didn’t_ want to.

There were doors in the world of sleep. Effortlessly Childermass opened them. Through one frame after another he sank, falling deeper and deeper into black, following those little sparks of light that marked his path. Deeper and deeper down…

Farther and farther away…

...until the light that touched his eyelids was that of midnight, and still beyond. He had risen so far the world had reversed and he had begun to fall. The sky was at his back, the moon pushing him forward- there was a great house approaching and he passed through its roof like a ghost, through the layers of its stone floors.

_Where are you?_

_Little magician in the dark._

_Be warned-_

_I’m coming home again._

Childermass opened his eyes.

Though perhaps, it was not right to say so- the real, _physical_ Childermass, lying on his bed in Starecross, did no such thing. The Childermass that was elsewhere- the Childermass that was _dreaming-_ merely became aware.

He was himself, he established right away- he saw his own hands and chest and feet, though in this place they did not bear the wounds he had sustained the night previous. Indeed, here he felt perfectly energized, and cleaner than he had in weeks. As for where ‘here’ was, that was a little more tricky.

There was a kind of sky above his head, but it was entirely black, and at first what he assumed were stars to light it turned out to be (upon closer inspection) floating cherry-flowers, their centres lit up like the bulb of a firefly. The landscape around him held no distinguishing features in three of four directions, being merely a flat plain in which all the ground was obscured by a low (but very thick) sea of deep gray fog. To Childermass’ left, however, and several dozen yards away, a tremendous ash tree rose through the clouds, its form made eerie by the dim light of the flowers. 

With no better plan in mind, Childermass began to walk towards it.

As he approached he was able to make out more detail- the tree had leaves, but whether this was an illusion of the light or otherwise, they appeared to be silver rather than green. The trunk of the thing was massive, Childermass doubted he could have put his arms around it if he tried, and so twisted and gnarled that it seemed to contain within it the impressions of other figures- of hands and feet, of human and animal faces, some smiling and others weeping. It was difficult to look at, for the more he looked the more he saw, and the sights made his eyes spin.

More importantly, there was a man standing at the base of the tree.

It was hard to see his face at a distance, but Childermass could pick out other things. He was tall and thin- taller and thinner than expected, for certain, and dressed in a kind of Continental fashion that Childermass didn’t recognize. A glowing flower floated past his head, shining upon it so as to reveal loose, unkept hair- hair that was very nearly, no, unmistakably _, red._ He was holding a book up to his nose, and Childermass could hear him reading from it aloud, though he could not make out any words. Was this really where he was meant to be? Childermass was no expert in the magic he had done, after all, there was every chance he had taken a misstep somewhere on the path…

...only a few feet away from the monstrous tree now, Childermass’ toe slammed quite sharply into something hard on the ground, and though he did not feel any particular pain from it the sound of his boot impacting (a root, he could only imagine) was noticeably loud in the silence of the dream.

The man with the book looked up, and Childermass saw then that he was Jonathan Strange.

The two men stared at each other for a moment. Childermass supposed his magic had worked well enough after all.

“You are- well now,” said Strange. “I do not believe I have ever dreamt of John Childermass, which means you must not be a part of my dream, but rather _invading_ it.”

“That is correct, sir,” Childermass said. Strange closed his book and put his free hand on his hip, making a disgruntled sound that Childermass, with vague amusement, recognized very well.

“It is so very difficult to execute one’s dreams properly these days,” Strange continued. “Magicians of all sorts-”

-Strange made a gesture up and down Childermass’ body, perhaps signifying what was meant by ‘all sorts’-

“-traipsing around and taking advantage of the complicated magic involved in getting to places like this. Tell me, sir, is there any particular reason you needed to commune with Yggdrasil, or did you merely fancy a picnic?”

“I didn’t come here for the tree,” Childermass said flatly. “I need your help. Or Norrell’s help- but since you’re here I suppose you’ll do.”

Strange raised an eyebrow at that, pausing only to adjust the source of his indignation, his mouth open in preparation of more words.

“Many magicians claim they need my help,” he said. “But I did not think that you ever would. Tell me, has the magic in England really run so dry that _John Childermass_ is asking for hel-”

“I come on behalf of John Segundus,” Childermass interrupted. “He is dying, sir.”

That quieted Strange. His exasperation- as often put on as genuine, Childermass had learned- vanished completely, and his posture turned contemplative. He did not reply.

“He is your friend, is he not?” Childermass insisted, feeling a prickle of anxiety touch him for the first time. “Would you not help him if you could?”

“I am not a doctor…” Strange murmured. “But then, I do not think you would come here if he needed a doctor.”

Childermass took a deep breath to prepare what he had to say next- even now, the words did not come naturally. Perhaps he was afraid he would not be believed- but there was no sense in that. He would make _certain_ he was believed.

“He has fallen victim to a vampire,” Childermass said. Strange’s eyes widened quite impressively, but Childermass continued. “It has been preying on him for some time. He has become...unlike himself. I do not think it will be long before…”

But his courage failed. Childermass could not finish. Strange, to his credit, did not laugh, or begin claiming impossibility. He put one hand over his mouth, eyes darting back and forth unseeingly across the fog at his feet.

“A _vampire,”_ he muttered, more to himself than anything. “Yes, but that’s…”

Strange looked up suddenly at Childermass, the force of his eyes surprisingly piercing. Childermass did not flinch.

“But why?” he asked. “I have been a friend to Mr. Segundus, as you said- but _you_ have not. Why would you…?”

Something unusual happened then- Childermass had not intended on answering, but somehow the dream answered for him. From his chest (and quite unwillingly) a tremendous and brilliant waterlily burst into existence, all its white-and-pink petals glowing twice as brightly as those of the cherry blossoms overhead. Childermass looked down at it in shock, and as he did he realized with dread that he recognized it- it was his _love._

...it was not a surprising shape that Segundus took in his heart.

“Oh, oh my,” Strange stammered, and Childermass looked back at him. He had turned away, holding one hand up before his face as though he was witness to something indecent- but that was true, wasn’t it? Childermass clenched his fists, and the flower dissipated, its light fading back within. Just as with the vampire, he had given up too much.

“Well, that is…” Strange continued. “That is- certainly, I know some men are- but I did not think of you- well, I never think of _you-_ but actually, perhaps Mr. Segundus would, yes. I…”

Strange cleared his throat. Childermass watched him very closely- even with so little light, he could see the man’s cheeks had turned very red.

“...I will not mention it, for it is none of my business. But- a _vampire,_ you say? I have no experience with such things- nor, do I believe, does Norrell.”

“There is a book in Hurtview Abbey,” Childermass told him. “I read it once, long ago, but now I do not recall its contents. It dealt with this subject.”

“I see,” Strange said, and he rubbed his chin again, turning to look at the tree somewhat wistfully. “Well, there’s no helping it.”

Strange raised his hands, and the eerie scenery dissolved around them, everything solid about the dark world and the vast tree turning to mist blown by some strong wind, and then to dewdrops of many new colours, before reforming into another realm entirely.

Now, they stood in Norrell’s library. 

But of course, Childermass recognized instantly that this was not the same library- not precisely the same, at least. The wood of the bookshelves (still carved into beautiful patterns of leaves) looked younger, and was more freshly polished. There were more lights- floating candles moved back and forth in the air, and there was a chandelier grander than anything Childermass remembered, so the room was filled with a sense of liveliness it never had possessed before. Where his own little writing desk had been- the place from which he had managed all of Norrell’s affairs- a much larger table now spread, its surface covered by a large silver basin and a few piles of books, some still open from recent contemplation.

“Now,” Strange said, smiling smugly at Childermass, “Do you recall the name of your book?”

Childermass said he did not, but he did remember where he had found it, and he set off down through the shelves in search. What an odd sensation it was- though he knew he was asleep, everything around him felt entirely real. He couldn’t say what magic had been done to create a perfect replica of the library in the dreamworld- but it certainly did seem like the kind of thing his old master would have invested in: that is, the ability to continue reading even while asleep. 

In the layout of the real library, Childermass remembered finding the book in an unusual spot- in the Northernmost corner, tucked behind a larger, more grandiose bookcase and half hidden by the window curtain, in a cabinet specifically designated for unsightly books. 

Which was to say, books of _black magic._

Childermass had read them all.

And sure enough, even in this version of the library, that cabinet was there. Childermass didn’t turn to see what Strange thought of his immediately finding the hidden space, and simply slipped inside. Now, which one-? It had been on a high shelf, hadn’t it?

Childermass’ fingertips brushed against rough leather, and he pulled the book down with a grimace, blowing dust off the cover.

As it turned out, this book had no title, yet Childermass recognized it instantly. The cracks on its black surface had a malevolent look to them, like watching eyes and whispering lips- certainly, this was the kind of book Norrell would desire to own, but not one that he would spend much time on. This was a book of the very worst kinds of magic.

“I found it,” Childermass called, and he stepped back out into the better lit area of the library. He held it up for Strange to see, and Strange approached, putting one hand on the cover. He murmured something- and one side of his face twitched as though with an incoming sneeze- and then suddenly there were _two_ giant, leather bound books, the one that Childermass was holding and one that Strange caught before it fell to the floor.

“It will be easier like this,” Strange said pleasantly. “Come, sit. I am sure between the two of us we will find something of use.”

At his prompting Childermass sat down at the table, pushing aside some of the previous researches, and set to work. He didn’t allow himself to feel any expectation or anxiety- time could work differently in dreams, and outside there was a whole day ahead. He worked methodically, turning mismatched page after page, eyes scanning the changing scrawls and tongues for familiar words. Occasionally his eye would catch on something strange or terrible- but if it was not what he wanted, he kept going. But the book was difficult to read- it seemed to have many authors, and in some places ancient letters or strips of bark were shoved between the pages, containing information of their own. None of the text was typed, and not all of it was in English- Childermass occasionally recognized Latin or German (though he could not effectively read either) but occasionally the very script would change, to something of the near or far East, or perhaps writing from another world altogether- writing that made his eyes ache and his pulse quicken the moment he laid eyes upon it.

Strange worked alongside him in similar silence, frowning at the pages of his copied book as he turned them. Childermass wasn’t sure if he was surprised at the man’s willingness to help- but he supposed he shouldn't be. He had never thought that Jonathan Strange was a bad man.

“Ah! Here is something!” Strange exclaimed after much time (how much time it couldn’t be said- there was no clock in the dream-library) had passed. Childermass guessed based on the thickness of the sides of the book in Strange’s hands, and flipped through his own to match.

“A record on the workings of the _‘vampyre’-_ this is surely right,” Strange continued. “What is this- by some fellow named _Helsing.”_

Childermass found the page. The sight of the word at the top of the page shot a chill down his spine. He turned a few more- this particular writing (in fairly clear, albeit spidery English) only continued for a few pages. Was this all? Was this what he remembered? It must be.

The first part of the ‘record’ explained the traits of the vampire- a dead body with no soul, blood-drinking, hypnotist, shapeshifter...Childermass skipped ahead, unable to help himself. He did not want to think deeply on memories of his failure- of feeling watching eyes in the night and ignoring them, of seeing visions of black-furred paws clutching pale skin. Next there was a list of protective symbols and restrictions- Childermass was oddly pleased to see that garlic and garlic-flowers were listed there (so that hadn’t been a useless endeavour after all), but there were also other things, like communion wafers and pure silver. _Sunlight can kill or injure-_ Childermass stopped to consider that phrase. It seemed a good thing to keep in mind.

“This next part, here,” Strange prompted, turning Childermass’ page for him. “It’s a list on the- erm- ‘stages of development’. Where do Mr. Segundus’ symptoms fall?”

Strange was too tactful- the underlined heading on the page said _gestation,_ not _development_. Childermass swallowed the bile in the back of his throat, running a finger down the list line by line, and finding grotesquely that he recognized every one. The weakness, loss of appetite, fever- signs mistakable for any kind of regular illness- the shifts in personality, the lust, the _thirst_. Physical changes… _subject may appear to grow younger...subject’s skin will grow cold to the touch…_

“Here,” Childermass said, tapping the third-to-last line on the list. The only two that remained after it were marked as _death of the subject, final period of rest_ and then simply:

_Birth._

“He’s already got…” Strange gestured at his own mouth, grimacing to reveal his teeth (entirely ordinary, slightly crooked, perfectly human teeth) and Childermass nodded.

“Good God, man,” Strange muttered, and he looked back at his own book. After a moment Childermass did the same, trying to stifle the black feeling in his chest upon this discovery. It was important to know…to know that if they did not save Segundus soon (quite possibly, if they did not save Segundus _tonight_ ) it would be too late.

Yet also it would be too soon; Childermass wasn’t ready. But then, perhaps it would always be too soon. In a flash of annoyance Childermass flipped through the book until he reached the end of the section, settling on that final page.

_How to Kill a Vampyre_

The words caught his eyes the way a tavern’s sign did an alcoholic. There was a promise in them that he realized he had not even considered. But if it were possible…

...if it were possible, then it was _deserved_. The thing would surely be hung by a court for what it had done, so Childermass had no qualms about being the executioner. Suddenly, a memory forced itself wildly to the forefront of his mind-

_“I’d slay your imaginary dragons for you,”_ he had said to Segundus. Well, perhaps they weren’t so imaginary- and it didn’t matter if he wasn’t a knight. The fury that had been woken inside him was hot enough to compensate for that.

There was a note in the margins of this page, and for some reason Childermass’ eyes were drawn to it:

_‘Important- the death of the sire vampire will not destroy any grown or nesting fledglings, but it will terminate the gestation of a foetus.’_

Then it was decided. Childermass turned his book to face Strange, one finger pointing to the title of the page.

“This is what I must do,” he growled.

“To kill…” Strange murmured. He inhaled deeply, tapping his hands on the table, and then sat back. “Well, I suppose I am not surprised.”

Strange turned his pages to match, but Childermass looked away, back at his own, committing each line to memory. The emotions surging in his chest were not to be described. At long, long last, there was a cure resting before him- the solution everyone had been searching for, the thing he had failed to remember. He had hardly hoped for that- and yet here it was, all laid out on a single page, a pig on a golden platter. He didn’t care how bloody or dangerous the job would be, he was going to do it, and that beast would be damned to Hell where it belonged.

_...a stake of blessed wood...penetrate the heart...remove the head...burn the body…_

When Childermass was certain that he had memorized the contents of the page he stood, uncaring of how his chair squealed as it was pushed back against the stone floor. He was ready. Now it was time to act.

“Thank you, sir,” Childermass said to Strange, who looked up at him in surprise. “You have done me a great service in allowing me to come here.”

“Of course,” Strange said somewhat perplexedly. Childermass turned away, beginning to concentrate on the workings of the spell that kept him asleep.

“I will not trouble you any longer,” he said, by way of farewell, but Strange stopped him, catching his forearm to ground him in the dream.

“There’s no need to go back by _yourself,”_ Strange told him. “I am sure I could be of some assistance in the matter- after all, I already have practice in saving one’s- erm- _beloved_ from inhuman captors.”

His face turned slightly red at these words, but still he spoke them confidently. Now, by this Childermass _was_ surprised- and so out of respect (and certainly, gratitude) he spared the man any more discomfort by slipping past the...chosen word.

“But what of your curse?” Childermass asked. “If you come to Starecross, a good many people will be caught in it, Mr. Segundus included. We are all ‘English magicians’.”

“Oh, that,” Strange replied, waving a hand. “Truth be told, Norrell and I worked out a way around that ages ago- it was very clever, if I might say so. You see, it is easier to- how shall I put it- _rethread_ aspects of such a spell than it is to dismantle it entirely. As Mr. Norrell and I were the ones under the curse, we simply replaced its understanding of ‘the English Magician’ with our own names- our own selves- and as such, the Tower is of no danger to anyone.”

“I see,” Childermass said. “And where is Mr. Norrell now?”

“Awake, I’d suppose,” Strange said. “It is morning.”

Childermass looked at him pointedly, until the question behind his question surfaced in the other man’s mind.

“Oh!” Strange continued. “I shall certainly tell him _something,_ but I doubt he will come along. Say, you must have a mirror in Starecross Hall somewhere- is it Starecross we’re headed to?”

Childermass told him yes, and yes again, and it seemed the matter was resolved. Strange stood and shook his hand (still it was odd, how very tangible he felt despite the fact that all this was a dream) and then stepped away, vanishing in a trick of the light, in the slightest turning of his mind’s eye.

Childermass was briefly startled- with the absence of its master, the library began to lose its shape, sagging the way clouds did when stretched across the sky by high winds. The solid wooden table before Childermass did not seem quite so firm anymore- it began bending into itself, so slowly it might not have been moving at all. The lights in the room blurred into the shadows. Childermass supposed this was his cue to leave.

He took a deep breath (a breath that no longer felt so tangible in his lungs) and looked up towards the ceiling, clenching his hands as though preparing to jump. Well, he did not claim to be an expert- but he did remember getting here by going _down_ , so logic stated that in reverse…

It did not feel like jumping. It did not feel like motion at all. Childermass found he was not rising so much as that everything else was falling away, the amorphous library disappearing into an endless dark beneath it, along with everything else in the world. Childermass could tell there was something up ahead, something coming towards him, but he could not have said then precisely what it was- a light, a stale smell, a solid pressure against his back-

With a start, Childermass woke in his little bedroom in Starecross. He felt quite disoriented for a moment- as though he had been pushed back into his physical body too forcefully by that dark space beneath his bedsheets, but he soon caught his breath. He sat up and looked at his pocketwatch- it was just past eleven in the morning. He hadn’t thought he had spent so much time dreaming, and yet, who was he to say? He had very little knowledge of such magicks- of many magicks, if his trip to Norrell’s damned library had been any indication.

Childermass rose and went back out into the grim day. He could see through what windows were left unboarded that the sky was overcast outside. To his surprise, he felt much more rested than he had in many days (this was good, he would need his wits about him) and yet at the same time all the weight of reality came back to him at the sight of those gray clouds. He may have learned something, but there was no victory yet.

Childermass first went to the kitchen, and told the servants to expect another guest for lunch. Hannah accepted his request without asking who it was. No one at the Hall was in their usual spirits- how could they be? 

Then, Childermass climbed the stairs to Segundus’ chambers. 

With little surprise, he found the headmaster’s study contained the rest of the house’s magicians, all packed in together around a little table. The only absence was Levy, and Childermass was quickly informed that he had gone back down into the village to collect more garlic. Honeyfoot told him this, for it was he who was sitting at the head of the table, still as insubstantial and gray and sad as before. Childermass had a vision- Honeyfoot would be headmaster of the school, wouldn’t he, when Segundus was buried (or worse, _unburied)_ in the little graveyard Childermass had found him in that morning. It was only natural, and yet the position wouldn’t suit. Honeyfoot was an old man, a man with a family, a man who was beginning to feel the pull of his own timely grave. What would become of the Starecross School of Magic, without the one who had dreamt it into being? Childermass found in that instant that he couldn’t reassure himself of anything.

“And what were you up to?” Purfois asked him. The fellow was tapping his fingers on the table- he had beside him a deck of cards that he had undoubtedly been shuffling, but clearly no one was in any mood to play.

“We will be having a guest arrive soon,” Childermass told the group, instead of answering. “He’ll be coming through one of the mirrors. Until then, I’ll have a word with the headmaster.”

Murmurings broke out across the table as Childermass moved around it, but his demeanour made it clear he wouldn’t stop for any questions, and so he wasn’t asked any. The door to Segundus’ bedroom was left halfway open, and he slipped through it without turning it an inch further.

The inside was very cold, and the wind whispered as it passed across the empty frames of the windows. Segundus was curled on the floor opposite to them, behind the bed. He had gotten dressed sometime- dressed in familiar clothes (at least). Childermass recognized the pieces as his finer ones, the ones Mrs. Lennox had purchased for him, those clothes that he wore to important events- the starched white of his sleeves and collar matched his skin now, and the navy blue of his silk cravat and velvet waistcoat contrasted them in a way that only served to reiterate how frighteningly slim he had become. Without a jacket, and with his unimaginably youthful features, Childermass realized he looked more like a student than a headmaster.

The bloody cross still blazed on his forehead, removing any sense of comfort or normalcy from the sight. 

“Segundus,” Childermass said quietly, his voice masked by the growing talk next door.

“Childermass,” Segundus said coldly. His eyes flicked up from the floor to Childermass’ face, and Childermass didn’t recognize them at all. “What are you here to do to me?”

“Save you,” Childermass said gruffly. “I’ve found a way.”

Segundus looked contemplative at that, and as Childermass watched he ran his tongue over his sharpened teeth, wetting them like a hungry wolf.

“I don’t-” Segundus began to say, but before he could finish, the sky outside turned black. 

The men in the adjacent room gasped, and immediately the sound of chairs scraping the floor could be heard as they stood. Across from him, Childermass saw Segundus’ eyes glow faintly in the dark, collecting the remaining light and reflecting it back.

“What did you _do?”_ Segundus whispered breathlessly.

The Black Tower had arrived.


	13. i have crossed oceans of time to find you

Childermass took Segundus by the hand, pulling him into the study, away from the open windows. He expected the other man to struggle, but he didn’t. In the next room over lamps were already being lit, and the startled faces that turned to him looked gaunt in the eerie light. 

_“Hello?”_ a voice called from downstairs before a word could be said to them. _“Hello, is anyone…?”_

“But that sounds like Mr. Strange!” Purfois exclaimed, and Childermass couldn’t help but smirk a little, if only to himself. At his words the rest of them were universally spurred into action, making their way out of the study and down the stairs, no doubt having come to the same realization: it must be Jonathan Strange. After all, for only one other man would the noon sky turn to midnight.

Childermass followed behind them, keeping a firm grip on Segundus, who didn’t seem to have any particular thoughts on the situation- though he did look curiously over Childermass’ shoulder, the lights in his eyes flashing red and white as they descended the stairs. Childermass did not think it at all prudent to leave Segundus alone in the dark. The Tower in Venice had covered several blocks, from what Childermass remembered- though he did not know specifically where the vampire lay its head, he wouldn’t leave to chance the possibility that an artificial night might rouse it.

It was, of course, Jonathan Strange who the men found in the main hall, having likely come in by the King’s Roads through the man-sized mirror kept in one of the larger classrooms. He had been lighting lamps by magic on his way (doubtlessly the kind of magic he had become familiar with) and as such the place did not seem quite so haunted as it had at first. Upon finding him there was a great flurry of greetings and exclamations- not one of these men had seen Strange in years, nor had any correspondence with him; of course they were all curious as to the nature of his fate. And yes, perhaps Strange had been an inattentive friend, but just then Childermass didn’t care. There was work to be done, and at the moment Childermass only cared about that.

“And where is Mr. Segundus…? Ah!” Strange said once he had assured the other magicians of a few very basic facts of his condition. Segundus, to Childermass’ surprise, presented himself, stepping out in front and folding his hands demurely behind his back (a gesture which ensured Childermass release him somewhat). 

“It is good to see you, old friend,” Segundus said in a voice that sounded like stone being dragged over steel. “This is different, your coming to my aid.”

Strange seemed so thoroughly startled by Segundus’ appearance that he took a few steps back (and didn’t notice the uncharitable, and consequently very un-Segundus-like barb hooked into his words).

“Goodness,” he said instead of answering, his voice pitched low, as though he spoke more to himself than anyone else. “If _that_ is how he would be as a vampire…”

He shot Childermass a look that seemed heavily weighted with too-warm, vaguely illicit implications, and in response Childermass glared. Strange straightened his jacket and cleared his throat, holding out a hand to Segundus, who accepted it with a vaguely perplexed little smile- white lips closed, so his face was wounded and beautiful, not wounded and frightening.

“‘Tis a pity to see you in poor health, sir,” Strange said, his voice much clearer than before. “With any luck that will be remedied tonight.”

“Do you mean you have found a way?” Honeyfoot interjected, putting his uninjured hand on Strange’s elbow. In response, Strange smiled a very typical smile (of course he didn’t understand how serious this was- Childermass remembered how hard it had always been to make him take things seriously). 

“As a matter of fact, we have,” he replied. “Come, I shall explain…”

In this fashion the party was taken down to the dining room, where the servants were laying out lunch by candlelight. There was more kerfuffle over Strange, and then they were seated, and Strange began to explain what had been discovered in the black, untitled book that morning. Childermass did not join in- he watched Segundus instead, who sat beside him, measuring the reactions on that pale face. When Strange’s description of how to kill a vampire began to become graphic Segundus shifted in his seat, one hand rubbing at his throat, and then at his chest, just over the heart. There was a constriction of his lovely brow that looked a good deal like fear, and so under the table Childermass put a hand on his knee to comfort him.

_It’s alright,_ was what he didn’t say. _I swear it will not be done to you._

No, Childermass did not think he could ever go back to contemplating the promise he had given Segundus before- with a hope now within his grasp, he realized he would rather die trying to fulfill it than have to be the one to cut Segundus’ head from his shoulders, to pierce his heart with a stake.

“I did not think it was possible,” Segundus murmured into the quiet when Strange was done. “I thought that he...that such things lived forever.”

“Well,” Strange began, but Levy (who had joined them near the beginning of the meal very gracefully, not seeming surprised in the slightest to find an unannounced guest at the table and a cursed night enveloping the house) spoke up before him.

“You only need a few materials, correct?” he asked. “We have the garlic, and plenty of silverware. We would only need to carve the stakes and have them blessed...I suppose the minister could do that.”

There was a moment of quiet as everyone agreed, and then Purfois stood, turning over the wooden chair he had been sitting on.

“Our benefactrice can purchase more,” he said mildly, and his message was understood, and the other men moved to do the same. As it turned out, Purfois did know a spell for sharpening things (he said he had devised it originally in order to achieve a better shave without needing to bother much with his razor) and so the matter was a simple one. In the end, two chairs were de-legged and everyone held a perfectly good wooden stake.

Everyone except Segundus, who sat still in his seat, curled around his own body in a perfect image of anxiety. Only his eyes moved, flickering back and forth between the men in the room, holding something like an odd cross between dislike and hope.

“We’ll have to go down to the church,” Honeyfoot said uncertainly. He was holding his stake in his uninjured hand, where it looked ungainly- and Childermass knew instantly that he would need to be left behind. The time ahead was beginning to take shape in his mind- he clenched his own wooden apparatus, and turned to Segundus.

“If we go out there, will he come for you?” he asked. Segundus looked at him sharply.

“Yes,” he said calmly. The room quieted.

“How do you know?” Strange asked, oblivious (he hadn’t seen the worst of it- oh, he hadn’t seen anything!) “Is there some kind of- of connection?”

“He’s awake,” Segundus said, both a reply and not. He was still looking at Childermass- or perhaps, past Childermass, into something only his eyes could see. “...but he’s confused. I can feel him spinning around inside my head. This kind of night...a fairy night...I don’t think he’s as strong as he would be normally.”

“Do you know where he is?” Childermass asked. He wasn’t sure if he should expect an answer. This morning- last night- it had seemed like Segundus’ mind was entirely lost, his heart turned away from itself by the little points that had sprouted from his skull. But who knew? He had spoken of hate, not love.

Segundus’ eyes closed, and he put shaking fingertips to his temples. He looked like he was concentrating on a spell.

_“Underground,”_ he whispered after a long moment. “He’s watching me. Ack-”

Segundus curled in on himself suddenly, like he had been hit by a lancing pain; his back arched upwards, spine straining against the fabric of his clothes, and Childermass reached out to touch his shoulder- intended as a comforting gesture, but Segundus cringed away like he had been burned.

_“Don’t touch me,”_ he snapped, his voice harsh and ice-cold. He looked up, baring his teeth like an angry cat. His eyes flashed red in the candlelight. “You don’t have the right! I won’t-”

Childermass yanked Segundus to his feet, turning whatever words he had in his throat to a little yelp- it was easy to be a brute, too easy, Segundus weighed nothing anymore. The sight of the cross Childermass had around his neck (the same one, that first one he had given and been forced to take back) silenced him, though his white upper lip still curled.

“Here’s an idea,” Childermass growled, looking at Segundus but speaking to the rest of the room. “We’ll all go down to the church together. When it comes for him- for it _will_ come for him- we will face it there, and kill it. Understood?”

He shook Segundus slightly on these last words to emphasize them. He was not speaking to the man he loved, but rather to that little red light in his pupils- the dead thing in the grave that was watching. 

“Right,” Strange said, clearly uncomfortable, but Childermass didn’t bother to look at him. “Does everyone have what they need- you, sir, you mentioned garlic…?”

There was a great scrambling as all the men in the room went this way and that, fetching their jackets and their own crosses and taking sprigs of ramsons from Levy. Preparing for another battle- hopefully one that would go better than the last. Segundus, at least, was awake- but Childermass doubted he could be trusted not to perform any unusual magicks. 

Still, under Childermass’ stare, Segundus’ snarl slowly faded, until his own gaze broke and he looked away, back at the candles on the table. Childermass let him go then, feeling vaguely disgusted with himself. He could see black and purple bruises peeking out over the collar on Segundus’ throat.

“Mr. Honeyfoot,” Childermass called when he saw the man return to the room, his jacket in hand, no doubt having struggled trying to put it on over his injured arm. “It...would not be prudent for you to join us.”

Honeyfoot’s eyes went rather wide, and his good hand formed an anxious fist at his side. He looked old. He looked far too old. Moreover, he had only ever been a scholar- a man accustomed to holding pens, not swords. The others were young, and most of them soldiers- and those that had not been to war had not been born into a life of natural comfort, nor indeed a life of safety. Honeyfoot had only ever been a gentleman.

(So too was true of Segundus. He had never done anything that warranted the cross searing his skin.)

“But I…” Honeyfoot trailed off. Gentleman or not, he was hardly a fool- surely he saw himself just as clearly as Childermass did. “...I could not bear to sit and wait for you.”

“You can be of use here,” Childermass said. “Fortify the house- make preparations in case we should fail. If we do return, I do not think it will be uninjured.”

Segundus laughed quietly at his words, and Honeyfoot heard, turning a disturbed gaze to what remained of his friend. Segundus did not look at any of them, still focused on the flickering of the candles at the center of the dining table. Slowly, he embraced himself, his bonelike fingers wrapping around his own narrow shoulders. Childermass wondered if he felt cold- if the thing outside _(underground)_ had left him capable of feeling cold anymore.

“Very well,” Honeyfoot said gently. All the tension fell from his posture, and he sat down again at the head of the table with a long sigh. “Very well.”

“Very well indeed,” chirped Strange from his corner of the room, standing up and adjusting the chair he had been sitting upon. “I suppose we’d best be going.”

Childermass agreed, adjusting his grip on the stake in his hand, acclimatizing to the unfamiliar weapon. It seemed an ungainly thing, somewhat too thick, but there wasn’t time for anything more. However this was going to end, it needed to end today.

All of the men gathered in the front hall, making their final preparations- tucking garlic flowers into their jacket pockets and rubbing the cloves on their throats, hiding silver-plated knives in their boots, and giving last instructions to Honeyfoot and the servants who gathered around them with candles to light the room, too much like civilians ushering soldiers off to war. Levy had found from somewhere an axe, which looked a little ghastly in his hands. The atmosphere had a grim determination to it- or perhaps that was only what Childermass felt, for his mind was possessed with it and nothing else.

_I’ll show you the Seven of Wands,_ he thought to himself.

Segundus watched the proceedings sullenly; there was no hope of getting him to wear garlic flowers, so Childermass didn’t bother trying (there was no reason to burn him again). But he did take one particular precaution- with a length of rope he kept in his travel bag he tied his right arm securely to Segundus’ left, leaving roughly a yard of space between them. Then, without taking the effort of explaining himself, he cast two small spells- one that would prevent the rope from being cut, and a second that protected it from magical intervention. Segundus allowed it with no comment, though he didn’t look at Childermass as it happened, which was vaguely discomfiting. Childermass didn’t know if such a spell would be strong enough if Segundus unleashed his greatest strength upon it, the way he had with the strait-waistcoat the night before, but anything was better than nothing.

When all was complete there was a moment of quiet wherein all the men looked at each other, unsure of what to say- and so, since saying things rarely did any good in situations such as these, Childermass turned and led the way, opening the front door and stepping out into the eternal night.

The trip was hesitant and eerie. All the wildlife around Starecross had gone quiet- and so too, it seemed, had the winds. The darkness had descended upon the world and stifled it. All that could be heard was the shuffling footsteps and nervous breathing of the men who walked somewhat too close together on the road. Segundus was the quietest- he walked beside Childermass obediently, the rope hanging low enough to touch the ground between them, and he did not seem to breathe at all.

They did not meet anyone on the road. Childermass had half-expected to see at least a handful of the village’s proper busybodies- when night falls in the middle of the day, who wouldn’t blame the School of Magic? And yet perhaps even the townspeople were silenced by the unnatural darkness. After all, what they stood under was technically a curse.

Every moment that passed without confrontation seemed to heighten the feeling of tension everyone no doubt felt in their bodies. Eyes darted this way and that, searching- was that an ominous figure, or the stump of a dead tree? a pair of glowing eyes, or a reflection of their torches on a leftover puddle?- ever it was the latter. Childermass often turned to look at Segundus, but Segundus never looked back, nor did he speak. Still, Childermass couldn’t help but think he was holding something down within himself- his calm had a touch of resentment to it.

Before long (but after what felt like very long) the church came into view; the first fixture of the village travelers from Starecross could come across. The entire party (with one exception) let out various noises of relief. Without realizing it, they felt they had just done something like cross a perilous bridge- but here, the earth was solid, wasn’t it? This was hallowed ground- even if it kept the dead within it.

Segundus did not look relieved- in fact, his shoulders had tensed, his eyes flickering back and forth across the scene through lowered lids. Childermass put himself on guard, and took his hand.

“Are you sure our friend got the invitation?” Strange said lightly, and Purfois laughed. Then, the flames in every torch went out, as though stifled by the sudden reach of an unseen hand.

Segundus took in a rattling breath that sounded too much like winter wind passing through a tree; Childermass turned, and there it was.

The vampire stood among the gravestones like it was one of them- just as cold and firm and haunted in the light of the fairy-stars. His face glowed as white and bright as the moon that was absent from Strange’s sky, and in that face his red eyes glittered, refusing to be outshone. Childermass couldn’t help but think he was beautiful...and extremely well-fed.

“What is this?” he said, his voice echoing in the empty air, and now it seemed the others saw him too, for Childermass heard a number of quiet gasps from behind him. “I can only think it is a present for me.”

Childermass squeezed Segundus’ thin wrist a little tighter, and turned his head to the man standing closest to him, who happened to be Purfois:

“Go to the minister,” he whispered tightly, passing his own stake into Purfois’ hands. “Have him bless the wood.”

There was no verbal response, but Purfois backed away- Childermass heard some small shufflings, followed by hurried footsteps, but he never took his eyes off the vampire. The creature watched these proceedings sharply, but he did not move to intervene. Childermass could feel Segundus beginning to shiver in his grasp.

“This is not your night,” Childermass told the vampire, for something to say- stretching time until the weapons were ready. “You don’t belong here.”

The vampire gave him a vaguely amused look, one full of aristocratic condescension, and then his eyes slid to the left- over to Segundus, who jerked in Childermass’ grasp.

_“Mon petit_ is full of uncertainty,” the vampire said lazily. “That is the only effect of this night.”

“Don’t call me that,” Segundus murmured, surely too quietly for the vampire to hear, and yet he seemed to. Childermass moved to stand before Segundus, and the thing laughed, exposing his teeth in their full, animal horror- so long they reached his lower lip, and so sharp they seemed to cut even the moonlight.

“I figured I would wait,” the vampire called. “But since you are here already, let us be finished. I will kill your arrogant jailers, and then tonight you shall be free of that heartbeat that so binds you, and we shall have our way with the world.”

The vampire made a sudden, surprising move- he crouched forward, bending over himself like a beast, his flawless face locked in a wide and manic grin. In two four-legged bounds he was nearly upon them before Childermass could even lift his fists, but Strange was quicker- he raised an arm and called something, his hand outstretched above his head as though to greet someone. From this palm burst a ray of surprisingly bright yellow light- light that did not behave the way such a light should, revealing that which lay before it and obscuring the rest to black shadow. Where this light touched all was illuminated, made vibrant and summery, as though where it shone a pocket of day appeared in the night- and then Childermass understood. This was _sunlight._

The vampire had landed himself in a puddle of sunlight, and in an instant it was clear he knew it too, for the fixed grin turned into a snarl, and the red eyes widened in almost comical proportion. For an instant Childermass thought he saw something begun to burn- an impression of blooming redness, not unlike the mark on Segundus’ forehead- and then the creature was gone, bounding away into the dark with a crazed howl, Strange’s magic unable to keep pace with him.

Strange muttered a quiet swear and the light from his palm flickered out. He was breathing heavily, and not just from shock- he shook his hand like it too stung, and no wonder, Childermass didn’t doubt that it was powerful (and hence, exerting) magic being meddled with there. Not the kind of thing to be relied upon, then.

The vampire was nowhere to be seen, but the night was not quiet- an eerie keening filled the air, seeming to come from every direction at once, and Childermass saw even firm Levy pale at the sound, his hands readjusting their grip on his axe.

Childermass pulled Segundus to him, holding him like a hostage (but wasn’t that true?).

“Where is he?” he whispered in Segundus’ ear, and Segundus’ leaned back against him, exposing his throat- from the corner of his eye, he could see Segundus’ own fangs bare in the starlight.

_“Behind you,”_ Segundus replied in a poisonously sweet voice, and in that instant Childermass felt something strike him between the shoulder blades- something that felt like the impact of animal paws, with sharp claws that tore into his clothes and (possibly) his flesh. He was knocked to the ground, wind stolen from his lungs. In the motion, Segundus had somehow gotten out from under him, he was moving away- but that blast of sunlight came again, catching in it both Segundus and a flash of a horribly twisted, inhuman face, until the latter vanished again and the former fell to his knees, covering eyes with a little cry as though he had been blinded. The rope that bound their wrists was still intact and, gasping, Childermass gripped it as he forced himself back up, pulling Segundus to him again.

“The church!” Levy cried suddenly- Childermass turned, and saw that the roof of the building had caught fire, trails of harsh orange light spreading across the wood and enveloping the simple cross at its head. The vampire was gone again.

Childermass, with as much breath as he could find, began to say the words of a rain-spell, (one of the easiest spells to perform in England) setting its head over the roof of the church- but the fire seemed to be moving quicker than the rain could dampen it. As he did so a number of figures fled the building- the minister one, and a few women, and Purfois as well, who held above his head as he approached the transfigured table legs.

“Don’t,” Childermass began to yell- _don’t show it off, fool-_ and Segundus spasmed against him, his teeth suddenly snapping shut against Childermass’ jaw. He felt the fangs scrape into his skin, the white-hot pain revealing that they drew blood, and something too dark and fast to truly see flung itself against Purfois, slamming him into the ground and knocking the stakes from his hands. The figure crouched over him, pinning him there, Childermass saw something like a face- like a muzzle- clamp down on Purfois’ shoulder, the gesture accompanied by a scream. Did their flowers do nothing to keep it away? Perhaps, not anymore- Strange raised his hand again, summoning the sunlight, and the vampire fled- but the light flickered out too quickly, revealing in itself a weakness.

Childermass ran to Purfois, dragging a reluctant Segundus with him. The church continued to burn- he wasn’t sure if his rain-spell was still working. Purfois, at least, was able to stand- his hand where it touched his wound came away soaked in dark blood, and his face was pale.

“I’m alright,” though, was what he said (a soldier he had been, after all). Childermass picked up one of the stakes, adjusting its weight in his hand, and Purfois did the same, albeit with a wince. Segundus stood, his figure silhouetted strangely by both the fire and the starlight, his eyes catching both and glowing red. Some of Childermass’ blood coloured his lower lip. By now, the others too had gathered close to the church, collecting their weapons and looking out into the darkness.

“Put out the fire,” Segundus suddenly said and, before Childermass could make any refutations, Strange did so, clenching his fist and stifling it in an instant. Childermass almost swore to himself- of course, ‘Greatest Magician of the Age’- and he didn’t know if Segundus was in control of what he was saying- but hadn’t the monster set the fire…? He didn’t know, he suddenly felt dizzy. He hadn’t slept in days, and he was not so very young, not anymore. His cheek stung where Segundus had bit him, and his ribs ached from the earlier fall. Purfois was bleeding from a vicious wound on his shoulder, and Strange was beginning to look pale from magical exertion, the skin of his spell-hand smoking slightly, and he didn’t know if Segundus could be trusted...at least they had their weapons, now.

Still-

“You know you will lose,” said the vampire, his voice coming from everywhere at once. “I can smell it- your despair.”

Everyone was shifting, eyes searching the night, desperately blinking away the last traces of flame from their vision. As always, everyone except for Segundus- Childermass turned to him, and saw that he was looking to the left, his expression calm and gaze steady. Childermass followed that gaze- to a gravestone where mist of a particular density settled. Childermass tightened the grip on his weapon.

“Give up,” the voice hissed, a terrible sound that seemed to come as a whisper right against Childermass’ ear- and then the rope that tied his wrist to Segundus’ suddenly caught fire.

He cursed, and raised his hand to make a fist- an imitation of Strange’s little spell earlier- but even that was not quick enough; inside his mind he felt the spells he had lain upon the thing shatter, and the threads disintegrated even as the fire went out. Segundus stepped away from him, no longer tied down by anything, and as he did so he met Childermass’ eyes- his expression was both dismissive, and somehow regretful. A terribly clear goodbye.

_“NO,”_ Childermass cried, or at least something like it- perhaps it was only a sound that tore so at his throat. He reached, but in an instant Segundus was already impossibly far away, standing before the grave with the vampire’s bestial figure wrapped around him. It was longer a beautiful creature, not in the slightest- its hands had become long, furred claws, its face elongated and twisted into an approximation of a wolf, its limbs all stretched out and contorted so as to allow it both to stand and to run on all fours. 

Childermass was running towards it, not even thinking of magic, a being of pure rage and desperation only. He saw the face of the vampire grin at him, revealing lines upon lines of sharp teeth, its mouth split open impossibly wide- ready- it was going to devour him, he was running right into that mouth, and yet he couldn’t stop himself-!

Before he reached whatever fate that would have been, he saw Segundus bare his own fangs (little, innocent, comparatively _infantile_ fangs) and sink them with deliberate malice into the vampire’s furred forearm where it brushed past his face.

The vampire broke gaze with Childermass, surprised, and instead of swallowing him whole it stepped aside from the wild strike Childermass made at it with his stake, releasing Segundus as it did so.

Childermass was sure this was an accident, but he didn’t have much time to think so- Segundus was tossed roughly against a gravestone, and he crouched there like a little imp himself, eyes glowing the colour of ripe strawberries and little fangs clenched. The blood on those fangs looked black.

The vampire, red tongue lolling from between its stretched lips, seemed to want to say something- but whatever its intentions had been, they were interrupted by a surprised shriek, as Levy- who had followed Childermass in his charge nearly step for step- swung his axe into the flesh of its back.

The blade seemed to penetrate surprisingly deeply- the vampire’s eyes bulged- and then it whipped around, its claws curving through the air at incredible speed to make contact with Levy’s neck.

Blood sprayed through the air- a thick, gushing torrent of blood. Levy’s throat was split open in a wide smile, and he fell back, unable to make any sound but a choked, dying breath. Some of his blood- the spray ongoing, seemingly unending- splattered across the grass, more across the vampire’s body, over its face and into its waiting, hungry maw.

And in this instant of distraction, Childermass closed the distance between it and himself once more, launching his arm forward with a desperation that bordered on unthinkable, and plunged the wooden stake into the vampire’s heart.

The world spun.

For a moment, Childermass did not think he had pushed hard enough- wood was only wood, after all, and he knew from experience it was more difficult that it looked to gut a man, nevermind a monster- and so he forced the thing deeper, twisting it, unable to see anything of the world around him but the task before his eyes. In that blood-pumping, timeless, hyper-aware moment, it was all that mattered.

Lightning seemed to strike, running through Childermass’ body, or perhaps through the entire world- everything became incandescent, burning white-hot and blindingly bright, so much so that all sensation was purged and reborn in a flash no longer than the blinking of an eye.

Childermass reeled from it, but what brought him back to himself were two sounds- the first, a long, agonized wail from somewhere behind him, unmistakable in timbre for the voice of the man he had come here to rescue, and the second an eerie, frozen gasp from the vampire. Childermass realized they were both on the ground, the creature's body trapped beneath his, and the sound it made was nearly indescribable- like the death gasp of a long-buried corpse, of air flooding lungs that had rotted away without use for centuries. But then, perhaps that’s exactly what it was.

Childermass looked up at the vampire’s face. Now, once more, it was a human face- an almost beautiful face. The body had shrunken back down to that of a man. It was looking back at him; their eyes met and locked. A number of emotions flickered across the red lakes of his irises- shock, what an all-consuming shock, it had been so certain of itself- and then anger, and then (to Childermass’ incredible surprise) _acceptance._ Peace came to the face of the monster like a slow wave, and as Childermass watched his mouth slackened, losing its snarl, and his white skin faded into itself, becoming a dull and hollow shade of gray, and then finally his eyes slipped shut for the last time, closing off whatever light they still held from the world.

In that breath, Childermass was consumed by a strange feeling- a feeling as though something very significant had happened, not just for himself, but for the balance of the entire world. The night was still for just an instant, pausing to note what had occurred, and then it came back to itself- leaving less than a second of acknowledgement for this change. But then, most things didn’t even get that much in death. Men, certainly, got nothing.

There was commotion from behind- many voices overlapping- someone took Childermass’ shoulder and, as though brought back to life himself, he recoiled from the body beneath him, shuddering with revulsion as he did so.

“Is it-” this person was Purfois. “Did you get it-?”

“Need to cut off the head,” Childermass groaned. “Cut off the head, burn the body.”

If they didn’t, the thing would get up again- not tonight, certainly, not tomorrow, but perhaps the night after that- the month after that, the year after that. Such things needed to be seen through. But Childermass was already abandoning this- there was something much more important to attend to- and he still felt like the world was spinning too fast, like there was too much happening around him to fully understand. He could feel his heartbeat in the pads of his fingers.

The other men were clustered around the place where Levy’s body had fallen, blocking it from view- Childermass remembered now what he had seen happen, and his stomach lurched. As he approached, Strange looked back at him, standing aside to let him through, face expressionless.

Levy was lying on his back, Childermass saw, in a pool of his own blood- his eyes were closed and his face death-pale. Segundus was knelt beside him, hands stained deep red with gore and folded gently on his own lap. He, too, was breathing, and in such great, shuddering breaths his whole body shook.

More shocking than that was this- every single hair on Segundus’ head had turned completely, flawlessly white.

Segundus looked up at Childermass suddenly, and there were tears forming lines on his cheeks, filling his sunken eyes. He still looked sick, terribly sick, but with a sudden swell of hope Childermass realized that he also looked very _human._

The burnt cross on his forehead was completely gone, replaced now only by a thin veil of sweat.

“I saw,” Segundus tried, his voice tremulous in his throat. “I- he- Restoration-”

_A spell to join that which has been parted,_ Childermass thought with sickening clarity, and he knelt on the other side of Levy, checking the pulse of his wrist. Silence had fallen across the graveyard, save the sounds of Segundus’ tortured breathing.

A steady, albeit slow, heartbeat. Levy was _alive!_ His wound would need professional examination, but he was alive...Segundus had used the spell without even an apparatus, through pure force of will.

_“Did you stop him?”_ Segundus asked harshly, and Childermass looked up at him. 

“Yes,” he said softly, and Segundus’ eyes squeezed shut, leaking another wave of tears. It was hard to tell if he was ecstatic or distraught- more than anything he looked like he was in pain, and he brought a hand up to his cheek to wipe his tears, smearing his skin with blood before Childermass could stop him. He was shivering like he had never been colder in his life.

Childermass took Segundus’ jaw in hand, and in doing so discovered that in fact the opposite was true- Segundus’ skin was _hot,_ feverishly so, and this discovery pushed him with fervour to uncover the next. With his thumb Childermass lifted Segundus’ upper lip, exposing his teeth-

-teeth that were white, and fairly even, and entirely reduced to a human shape. 

“They’re gone,” Childermass said, letting Segundus go. He heard himself laugh, and repeated his discovery for the rest: “He’s been freed!”

Strange let out a meagre little whoop, standing off to one side with his hands on his hips and looking thoroughly disheveled. Purfois- no less disheveled, and clutching his wounded shoulder- flashed a brief, pained smile.

“I’ll run back to the house for Honeyfoot and the doctor,” he said smartly. “I think we’ll be needing some help.”

Childermass nodded, and then he was left to turn back to Segundus, who was now looking around himself quite pitifully. He trembled still, like a newborn bird. It did not seem that he knew entirely where he was, and between the tears and the blood and the pure-white hair he was every part the image of distress.

“It’s alright,” Childermass murmured, moving to draw Segundus away from the unconscious Levy, hoping to help him stand- but Segundus was too weak for that, his legs gave out, and so Childermass sat with him on the grass, catching one of Segundus’ hands and holding it, uncaring of the still-warm blood that smeared them. For an instant, he wished they were alone-

“You can kiss him if you want,” Strange said, almost as though he had read Childermass’ mind: “Erm, if that’s what’s done- well, do whatever it is that’s done. I will look away.”

And that he did, crossing the yard to examine the remains of the vampire- a crumpled body with no power anymore, easily left alone and forgotten.

So Childermass did kiss Segundus- on the temple, where he was very warm, then on the cheek, where he was warmer. He put one hand over Segundus’ heart and felt it beating, strong and perhaps too quick. Segundus let out a little hiccup, he was still shaking, expression tight with an effort not to cry. Childermass saw his eyes dart back and forth beneath wet lashes- to Levy, to Strange and the vampire, and back again.

“How do you feel?” Childermass asked him. Segundus shook his head, wiping his sticky palms on his trousers anxiously.

“I don’t know,” he whispered. “I can’t...I don’t want to be here anymore.”

Childermass kissed his cheek again, but Segundus pushed him vaguely away.

“Too hot,” he gasped. “I can’t...breathe, dizzy…”

Childermass understood, putting an arm around Segundus’ neck and back to catch him as he fell to join Levy in the realm of the unconscious, laying him down gently in the grass. There wasn’t any colour on his face, save the bloodstain. Childermass wasn’t sure how worried he should be- it wasn’t the first time he had seen Segundus wilt away like this, not by _far,_ and yet…

“Is he alright?” Strange asked, rejoining Childermass, who shrugged. “In that case, let’s finish the job. I’m not much enjoying the presence of our other friend over there.”

“You don’t want to study it?” Childermass asked, removing his jacket to lay it over Segundus’ sleeping form. “It’s an incredible magical relic.”

Strange seemed to squirm slightly, and Childermass stood. 

“Truth be told, I’ve never liked black magic,” he said. “And things that are brought back from the dead…”

He shook himself as a man did when recalling something particularly unpleasant, and so Childermass let it be.

Both men walked back to the vampire’s body, and Childermass picked up Levy’s axe from where it had been discarded. The sight of the thing was almost surprising- it had faded so much in comparison to the succulent, voracious beast in Childermass’ immediate memories. It looked now like a dry corpse of several days, even further decayed than it had been when Childermass had stabbed it- the gray skin had taken on a quality not unlike frayed fabric in some places, sunken in against the bone. The eyes were still closed, but the lids seemed to have collapsed in on themselves, and protruding almost proudly from the chest was the transfigured table-leg Childermass had stuffed there, seeming as unshakable as a sculpture made of stone.

Strange gave him a look and so, seeing no reason to make further ado, Childermass raised the axe and brought it down somewhat inexpertly on the vampire’s neck.

_Thud._ The blade went through in one blow- the creature’s skin had become as dry and fragile as tissue paper. Strange gagged, looking away, and for a moment Childermass had to also. With one jerk of the handle he made the head roll away from its counterpart, and it did so almost as lightly as a wicker ball.

“Do you think it’s safe to do it here?” Childermass thought aloud, not fancying the idea of carrying the crumbling corpse anywhere else, and Strange didn’t seem to either, for he quickly said:

“I’m quite adept with fire magic- putting on as well as putting out, one might say. Now, move aside.”

Childermass did so, and Strange stepped leerily up to the body, holding one hand in the air before it. He said something Childermass couldn’t quite hear, and made a rapid little gesture before his lips, and then the remains of the vampire burst into flames.

The light was out again within seconds- the body did not burn like a human would, rather more like a mountain of rice paper as dry as a desert wind. The fire caught and spread across the shriveled limbs like lightning, turning all it touched to ash in a breath. There was a moment of sharp heat on Childermass’ face as he watched this, and then the fire burnt itself out, having devoured all its fuel. Upon the grass, there was only black dust and a vaguely person-like scorch mark, as sinister as any common shadow or stain.

It was over, now. But nature did not stop for the burning of the body- perhaps it had already known that the thing was dead.

(The look of peace Childermass had seen in the vampire’s eyes would linger in his thoughts for some time after this- something that could not be explained, or at least something that he couldn’t explain.)

Strange let out a little huff of relief, and Childermass turned back to the two casualties lying away from the fire. Segundus had not woken properly, but he had turned onto his side, curling around himself under Childermass’ jacket like a babe. His furrowed brow and twitching fingers suggested that he was sleeping (not strictly in a faint), but having disquieting dreams. Fever dreams, the visions one had when they were almost awake- Childermass knelt to feel his forehead, heat rolled off it in waves, and felt a little light of worry start up deep inside his chest once again.

When Childermass turned to check on Levy, he saw that this man was awake- his eyes were open, and his breathing was measured, but he had not tried to stand. When he saw that Childermass had noticed him, he spoke:

“What happened?” he asked in a cutting whisper. “Did we get it?”

“Yes,” Childermass told him. “It’s over. Mr. Purfois has gone to get the doctor for you. You were very badly injured.”

Levy gave the very tiniest of nods to that, as though it hurt to move his head more- and well, it probably did. His throat had been slit- what, twenty minutes ago? It might not even have been that. He folded his arms across his chest, clearly uncomfortable, and Childermass sat down on the grass again beside Segundus to keep watch. The stars above, when he looked at them, were foreign- certainly, they were not English stars. He doubted they were the stars of any place on Earth. But at the moment, that didn’t matter.

Childermass took in a deep breath, and sighed. The air had a sweet smell to it, like the dawn of a proper spring.

In the distance, flickering lights came into sight- the yellow-orange light of torches and lamps, coming from the road in the direction of Starecross Hall. It was about to get busy again. 

In spite of it all, Childermass smirked to himself, and put a hand on Segundus’ shoulder.

“Just a little more,” Childermass murmured to him. _Love,_ he added in his mind, but did not say. “Just hold on a little more.”


	14. epilogue/do you believe in destiny?

Segundus leaned close to the mirror by his dressing table, lifting his upper lip slightly to pick at his teeth with the end of one thumb. Childermass watched him from the door, yet unseen, having entered too quietly. Segundus’ brows furrowed and he looked away from his reflection with a frown, adjusting the sleeves on his jacket. Childermass saw that his fingers held a faint tremor.

“Good morning,” he said, and Segundus looked up at him in surprise. He smiled rather weakly, but brightly nonetheless- a sight Childermass had feared would be lost to him.

“Good morning,” Segundus replied quietly. “I didn’t hear you. I’m not late for anything, am I?”

“No,” Childermass told him. “I came early.”

Segundus didn’t stand, so Childermass took it upon himself to close the distance between them, taking Segundus’ chin in hand and raising his face. The smile maintained, but became vaguely bashful, Segundus’s dark-circled eyes turning away. His cheekbones still stood out under his skin, like mountain lines on an otherwise empty map.

It had been just over a week, now, since the vampire had been destroyed. 

In as little time as this the gardens at Starecross Hall had erupted into full spring bloom, catching up to their uncorrupted counterparts across the country in haste. Any last vestiges of the vampire’s unwholesome magic- unusual insect and animal behaviour, bad weather, voices heard from the distant moon- had been entirely banished, and left no trace. The windows in Segundus’ chambers had been restored, and even the lost horses from the tempest had all been recovered, in more or less proper condition. To the untrained eye, it might seem that nothing at all had ever been amiss at the School of Magic.

The day of the battle Strange had stayed for a little while to help finish things up, and to eat a hearty dinner, explaining the vaguely man-shaped stain on the grass to anyone who asked. Before the true night could arrive in full he took his leave back to God-knows-where, with some unconvincing promises to stop by (perhaps for the holidays), taking his monstrous fairy-night away with him.

“But don’t hesitate to call if you need any more help,” Strange had told Childermass and Honeyfoot before departing through the classroom mirror. “Any real help, at least. I’m not so very bad as Norrell, you know.”

They had agreed they would.

Levy had been kept bedridden for a few days, by doctor’s orders- the wound on his throat had been sealed surprisingly well, if a little clumsily; his skin now bore an ugly scar, but there had been no danger of it opening again, and his voice had returned on the second day. Rather, what had left him ill was the initial blood loss, but even from that he had soon recovered, and to everyone’s delight was up and about the house again. Purfois, too, had handled his own wound (an ugly animal bite) quite gracefully, and was due to lose his bandages in a few days, while Honeyfoot’s condition was much the same- despite being the original casualty of the party, he had kept himself up managing the household and all the other invalids, perhaps to assuage whatever guilt he felt for being unable to accompany them to the graveyard that night.

Segundus’ own recovery had been comparatively slow, but fairly steady. His first few nights after that decisive one in the graveyard had been spent in a fever- a regular, warm fever, with entirely human symptoms and behaviours. Both the doctor and every magician in the area had examined him beyond thoroughly, and all had concluded the same: he was safe from the supernatural. No new bruises appeared on the flesh of his throat.

Of course, Childermass had still been afraid- how could he not have been afraid- for wouldn’t it be just like Fate to save Segundus from a cold death, only to give him a hot one? And he had ever been too frail- but no, the fever had broken on the third night, and from then on Segundus had only improved, albeit as slowly and shakily as a fawn learned to walk. He had begun to eat again, and he slept through the nights, and with some help he could make it further and further distances from his bed. The servants took to doting on their sickly master with redoubled fervour, and this time their efforts were continually rewarded, as Segundus had quite intensely returned to his natural character- one of kindness, and sweetness, and gratitude. To the joy and relief of everyone at the school, the icy and resentful vampire that he would have become had been wiped from his being entirely.

Not all was quite as it had been. Segundus’ hair remained that unusual white that had been struck through it on the night of the battle, and he still had a fair bit of weight to gain, though neither of these things seemed to bother him. Most importantly, the sharp teeth that had sprouted in his mouth like so many poisonous things were gone now- returned to their old, natural shape, almost as though they had never been there. 

“My jaw hurts,” Segundus murmured mildly. “I keep thinking that it isn’t really gone, and…”

Childermass tried to lift the edge of Segundus’ lip with one finger, and Segundus let him, cheeks turning their mildest shade of pink. 

“Seems alright to me,” Childermass said, and Segundus pushed him away with a little shrug. Childermass laughed, and then there was quiet for a moment, where Segundus’ skin slowly faded back to a wan kind of white.

“I must have done something to hurt you with them,” Segundus said. “I do not remember exactly, but…”

“No, you didn’t,” Childermass replied, and he took Segundus’ hands in his own, lifting one to kiss his knuckles. A white lie, in his opinion. Segundus didn’t need to know the origin of the now-faded wound that had decorated his jawline. “You could have, but you didn’t.”

“You say that like it's all forgivable.”

Childermass frowned at him.

“Of course it’s forgivable- there’s nothing to forgive. You were enchanted.”

Segundus looked away, and Childermass saw in his eyes a faint brightness, the suggestion of tears. But any possibility for words from him was replaced by a shuddering inhale from Segundus, and then he spoke, in the tiniest sounding voice Childermass had ever heard from a man:

“Do the others think less of me for this? ...do you?”

“No,” Childermass said, and then when it seemed the word had been too rushed he repeated it harshly, getting down on one knee beside Segundus’ chair. _“No.”_

Segundus bit his lower lip, and the furrow of his brow suggested Childermass was not entirely believed. When had he last seen such a face? Perhaps, the day Norrell had sent him to shut the school down.

“Are you sure?” Segundus asked, and yet again before Childermass could answer he did so himself. “No, of course you are. But I cannot help feeling like a fool.”

“You’re not a fool,” Childermass muttered, and he kissed the back of Segundus’ hand again. “I’ve heard the talk- you know I have. No one thinks anything of the sort. In truth, they probably want you to write a book on it.”

Segundus let out a quick little laugh at that, and then sighed, looking back at his reflection in the mirror.

“At breakfast Honeyfoot said he will organize letters to send to the students,” he continued, winding his free hand somewhat anxiously on his lap. “The plan is to resume term at the end of the month. I think I will be better by then, but- do you think that they will come back? This has been a very poor showing…”

“Mr. Segundus, sir,” Childermass said, standing up once more, which made Segundus’ eyes widen slightly. “You are the beloved headmaster of England’s most prestigious school of magic. If you cannot recall that I shall recall it for you. Moreover, the students adore you- that much anyone can see. Such fretful thoughts hurt you with no reason.”

“England’s _only_ school of magic,” Segundus muttered somewhat petulantly, perhaps latching on to the only aspect of Childermass’ speech he knew he could reasonably dispute.

“Not true. There is a little one in London now, too- I believe it operates out of a yellow tent.”

Segundus frowned at him, but Childermass saw that his eyes were clear.

“All I want to do is feel sorry for myself,” he murmured wryly, “and you won’t even let me. Rogue.”

“Well, I was planning on taking you out instead,” Childermass told him plainly. “We never had that ride you wanted...that is, if your health is-”

But Childermass didn’t have much opportunity to finish this sentiment, for Segundus’ eyes went very wide and he clapped his hands together, gasping and blushing very sweetly indeed. It was the kind of sight that usually rendered Childermass speechless, and this time it was especially striking, for he had not been treated to it in what felt like a very long time.

“Oh, yes, that would be delightful!” Segundus chirped, and he stood with remarkable energy. “I feel I haven’t been out in months…”

So Childermass helped Segundus find his riding boots and led him outside, pleased to have put his mind off of those other melancholy imaginings. Segundus was not the type to keep grudges- Childermass hoped he would extend that same courtesy to himself.

In the gardens, the sun was shining pleasantly, but not overbearingly, its face peeking out from behind thin lines of puffy white clouds. Segundus covered his eyes upon stepping into it, his face crinkling somewhat in discomfort, but this didn’t last long. Even that last touch of influence was fading fast- and if the kitchen kept feeding him like they had been these last few days, Segundus would surely be back to the peak of his usual (admittedly unstable) health before the students returned.

As they walked to the stable Childermass stopped for an instant to pick a white clover from the ground by their path, and once inside (out of sight of anything but the horses, who could not tell) he gave it to Segundus.

“Oh, thank you,” Segundus said with mild surprise. “What is this for?”

“To see you hold it,” Childermass said bluntly, and Segundus coloured all the way to his ears this time, tucking it into his breast pocket with a little smile. 

“Is there anywhere in particular you wanted to go?” Childermass asked him (perhaps, to hide the effect that smile had on his own body).

“Oh, I don’t know,” Segundus replied. “Over the moor to see the heather- anywhere, as long as the sun is shining. And as long as it’s with you.”

“...well, that sounds fine to me.”

Segundus smiled again and turned away to find his tack, humming something faintly, lines of that mild sunlight turning the edges of his newly blanched hair silver and gold.

_I-_

-but no. He would say it first this time.

“I love you,” Childermass told him, though the words sounded bold in such an atmosphere, and Segundus looked over his shoulder, surprised.

“I love you, too,” he replied.

Then he laughed, and Childermass nearly did so also, and as such it must have been that all was right again in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in time for Halloween. Thanks to everyone who was patient with this story!


End file.
